


A Skirmish of Wit

by livingvakariouslythroughyou (supercow585), stuckypocketguide (PocketGuideTyrant)



Series: A.K.A. Baby Steps [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Defenders Big Bang 2017, F/M, Fan Art, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jessica drinks too much, Little bit of smut, Mild Language, POV Alternating, PTSD references, Plenty of sarcasm, Slow Burn, angst with a (mostly) happy ending, but she's working on it, written before the release of The Defenders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-08 19:12:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercow585/pseuds/livingvakariouslythroughyou, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketGuideTyrant/pseuds/stuckypocketguide
Summary: Created for the 2017 Defenders Big Bang with special thanks to stuckypocketguide for the fabulous art.Nothing brings people together like suffering- particularly when working in close quarters with an ex. As they both pine and struggle with regrets, Jessica and Matt find themselves gravitating toward one another in the midst of the larger Defenders group. Initially they appreciate the sarcasm they share and an audience with which to commiserate, but as they spend more time together, they find they understand one another and enjoy each other’s company. And the closer they get, the more they consider that maybe they don’t have to suffer alone anymore. Maybe they can find some happiness together. A story of unlikely friends turned (reluctant) lovers. My take on the way a Matt/Jess relationship builds in the world I imagined for the Defenders before the show came out.





	1. Chapter 1: A.K.A. Lonely Hearts Club

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to the mods and everyone who put the Defenders Big Bang together! This was my first bang experience and it was a pleasure from start to finish. And the biggest shout out to my amazing artist and partner stuckypocketguide! Check out her other stuff!

Later, when she reflects back to when it all started, Jessica will come to understand that it's probably because of her job- her ingrained tendency to look for people's secrets and the typically ignored clues and subtleties that belie them- that she sees it the first time. The harder set of his jaw when he hears Claire's voice. The tension that builds in his frame when Claire enters the room with Luke. The creases between his eyebrows and at the edge of his flattened mouth as he attempts to keep himself from frowning at their small but still noticeable displays of affection. Matt Murdock is typically the definition of stoic, but this seems to be one thing which will cause his perfect mask to slip minutely and without fail. He tries so hard to keep it concealed, and he's fooling pretty much everyone else. Except her. And once she notices it, she can't _not_. And then she can't not think about what, if anything, she should do about it.  
  
She's still not entirely sure why she even brings it up. Maybe he just happened to catch her on a (slightly) better day. A not-total-shit-day, which are blessedly more abundant on a personal level in the absence of Kilgrave, though harder to come by lately in terms of the awful crap they are learning about and the people they are fighting against as the Defenders. But there is also a surprising and unexpected sense of … familiarity that she is starting to feel around these people that is adding to her less negative outlook. It's not quite friendship, but it's close. Well, kind of, though with some much more than others. And honestly? Maybe _that's_ why she brings it up. Because she feels some sort of budding kinship with Matt that she is unprepared to examine too closely but is nonetheless grateful for. So for now, she settles for the explanation that compared to the other possible choices in their group, she doesn't feel guilty when she looks at him, neither does she want to punch the over-excited look off of his petulant face whenever he opens his mouth.

It also may have something to do with the fact that he got her off on those pesky murder charges... but she's not too keen on thinking about that particular chapter of her life anymore than absolutely necessary. Plus, she'd rather pull out her own tooth than admit to being in debt to anyone for anything. Ever.

So really, it might mostly have to do with the flask that she keeps in her jacket pocket. She finally decides this is sufficient motivation to actually engage him in a conversation of some import. So on this particularly okay day in which she has already had just enough whiskey to have the beginning of a pleasant buzz going, she finally decides to say something.

Jaw set with determination, she crosses the length of his office suite from the conference room, where they've all set up their headquarters as they strategize about the next steps in the plan to investigate Midland Circle, and joins him in his office. He had retreated there earlier in an attempt to give himself some breathing room from the resident happy couple. She can't blame him, but she tries to be a little more subtle than he is. Not that it particularly matters, but she still tries to keep up appearances.

With a nonchalant air, she sits on the corner of his desk, watching as his hands move feverishly over lines of braille text as he sulks in his chair. She leans toward him though she doesn't directly face him and pitches her voice low so as not to be overheard outside the confines of his small office.

“My condolences for your dog.”  
  
He blinks at her and remains silent for a moment. As a result of continued exposure, he's getting more used to her gruff demeanor and abrasive personality, but she still sometimes manages to surprise him with her little quirks and her remarkable lack of  people skills. He finally decides he'll bite, as she is clearly trying to engage him in conversation, but the response he gives is flat enough that it ceases to sound like a query though he's still technically asking her a question. “What.”  
  
She continues not to look at him as she explains her comment, instead keeping an eye on their compatriots in the conference room, all to ensure their relative privacy. “Well, you look absolutely pitiful over there, and in my experience the only reason a guy would look like that would be because his heart is broken and he's pining, or someone ran over his dog. I didn't peg you for the romantic type, but I guess even I don't know everything.”  
  
The look of confusion and simultaneous embarrassment that he gives her is slight, partially hidden under a well-practiced mask of blankness, but taken all together it's something of a masterpiece to behold. She wonders how many times he's used it before. And whether or not it's worked. Because she's not buying it. But since she's not having a totally terrible day, she'll indulge him a little more. And she just might get some entertainment out of it, which is an additional bonus. She's all about small miracles these days.  
  
“I’m sorry? I don't know what you're talking about.”  
  
She rolls her eyes and thinks that if she were to roll them any harder, they'd probably fall out of her head. “Cut the shit, Murdock. I know the look of a man who is regretting what he's lost better than most people. I just thought you might want to know it was painted all over your face whenever they're around." She turns her head, her gaze landing on the pair in question. Even if he can't see where she's looking, she's betting he can guess.

"Figured you don't want to undermine that whole ‘Devil’ thing you've got going on. I mean, you try really hard to conceal it, and you do a decent job most days. Everyone else here is probably too oblivious to notice, but if you're _really_ looking, it's there. Just so you know.”

He instantly flushes, and she watches as his entire body tenses. She instinctively recognizes what she's seeing- the raising of his defenses as he primes to bolt, to shut down this conversation without a moment’s hesitation. She briefly wonders if she looks the same whenever someone trips her own internal alarm, but that thought is quieted by the thought that she needs to calm him down and quickly if she wishes to keep from spooking him so much that he leaves. She tries a nonchalant, disinterested tone as she states the facts as she sees them.  
  
“Look, I get it. She's hot and capable. Plus that whole nurse thing probably helps. Makes her the one person who ever saved the 'savior' that is Daredevil. And, shit, you're Catholic, so that's probably doubly attractive for you. Just how many times has she patched you up, anyway? Maybe even saved you from kicking it outright? I imagine that really works for a guy. Especially when his options are limited due to his... _night_ job."  
  
He can do nothing but clench his eyes shut and shake his head at his own folly to have set himself up for this by being too weak and not keeping everything locked away in front of this group. Or at least in front of her. He should have known better. He really should have. He knows he is caught, and after a few beats he concedes his defeat. "H-how did you know?”  
  
“Please; it's my job to know these things. Usually I'm paid to photograph them, but in this case your secret is safe with me.”  
  
He looks so distraught that for a moment she almost laughs at him. Almost. Instead she bites her tongue and watches as he hangs his head in shame.

“Thanks, I guess. For the warning.” He huffs an exasperated sigh, an intense frown on his face. “I thought it would be fine- all of us working together- and that I'd be able to handle it. Focus on the greater good, you know? But seeing her with someone else? Seeing her happy… it's bittersweet. Hurts more than I imagined it would.” A beat pass and she can imagine what he’s feeling but unwilling to say out loud. “But I guess it doesn't matter now."  
  
She looks away and exhales deeply to cover the lump growing in her throat due to the fact that she knows all too well what he is talking about, understands the stab of pain that comes from seeing them together. She feels it in her chest every time that she sees Luke smiling at or reaching for Claire. She has become increasingly familiar with that ache. Hence the aforementioned whiskey. _Speaking of which..._  
  
She takes her flask out of her inside jacket pocket and unscrews the cap with a single, practiced flick of her wrist.  “I hear that. Luke and I …” she struggles to continue as her throat constricts suddenly around the punishing regret that she feels when she thinks of him. “Uh, well, let's just say that I'm a complete fucking idiot, so I am intimately acquainted with pain that comes with seeing him with her. Every goddamn day. And whiskey is the only antidote I have found.”  
  
She takes a long swig, wipes her mouth with the back of her free hand, then holds the flask out for him… before remembering that even with his senses (which she is still not entirely sure she understands), she should probably give him some verbal clues.  “Do you want some?" She asks it with a put-upon tone of annoyance and a roll of her eyes, though she belatedly realizes that the latter is likely lost on him. But he is not the only one with an image to maintain.  
  
He cocks his head and squints at her. “Do you always carry that around? Even when you're working?”  
  
This time the annoyance in her voice is genuine, as is her scoff. “Fuck you. I'm a grown-ass adult and I can take care of myself. It doesn't interfere with our work, so I don't need your judgement or your sanctimonious advice. Now, do you want some or not?” She holds her hand out more adamantly and though he can't see the scowl on her face, she's guessing he can feel it.  
  
She watches him wage an internal war as he debates what to do, his expressions shifting from a confused frown and morphing into a glower. Finally, he gives a defeated sigh and reaches out to accept the offering. She guides the flask into his hand, and has to work not to flinch at the brush of his fingers against hers during the hand-off. But she has a momentary thought of bafflement at the fact that she wasn’t flinching in revulsion but in response to something much… warmer, if achingly unfamiliar.

He takes a quick drink, slightly uncomfortable with the sense of relief he feels at the burn of the liquor on his tongue and down his throat. He parses the taste left behind as he swallows, attempting to identify the specific notes and qualities of the flavor. But he winces at the overbearing taste of ethanol with no other complexities to balance it.

“God, do you always drink whiskey this terrible?”  
  
She snorts derisively at him as she takes the flask back, intentionally avoiding making contact with his fingers this time. She helps herself to one more drink before closing it and storing it back in her jacket pocket. “Asshole. ‘Ya know, most people would just say thank you. And fuck you and your high-brow taste. I drink whatever is cheap. Not all of us are attorneys.”

At her sharp retort he laughs, and it’s a genuine, full-bodied sound that seems odd coming from his previously scowling face. She finds herself wondering at him because she doesn't remember ever hearing him laugh before. Not like this. But now that she has, she _really_ likes it, though she would never admit just how much. Neither would she admit how nicely it makes his face light up and makes his eyes crinkle in the corners, how it makes his voice sound more musical and alluring, how it makes him seem so much less… brooding. She even notices a little bit of warmth creeping into her chest, though she would possibly go so far as to die before admitting _that._  But by the time he breaks her reverie by speaking again, his scowl is creeping back into place, rendering the issue  
moot for the time being.

“Thanks for the drink. And for the advice.” His tone starts out begrudging but morphs into something bordering very close to sincerity by the end.

She shrugs, as though brushing him and his sentiment off. “Whatever. Besides, my intentions are partially self-serving. Because I can't have you moping around like a sad puppy if we're gonna be working together.  It really ruins my whole ‘apathetic badass’ vibe.”  
  
He scoffs at her, and his mouth slides into a winsome smirk. And, damn, is she completely caught off guard by the tiny spark that she feels in her chest as a result. She is very grateful that she doesn't have to think about that very long as he suddenly cocks his head, listening to something across the office suite.

She jumps on the chance to change the subject. "What is it?"  
  
"Sounds like they've finished with their part of the plan. We should head back."

With a sigh, she pushes off from the desk and watches as he begins sorting his papers, putting them away into his briefcase. "Yeah, I probably shouldn't keep Hogarth waiting. She's even more of a bitch when she knows I'm coming and can prepare her tirade in advance."  
  
He laughs under his breath at that. "I can just imagine her warming up by biting the head off of some poor, unsuspecting intern as we speak."  
  
She huffs a laugh and playfully punches him in the shoulder. "You're alright, Murdock." She hesitates for a moment, biting her lip while deciding whether or not to say anything else. Some part of her doesn't want this moment to end, doesn't want their budding connection to be snuffed out. It's so comforting to have someone to commiserate (and drink) with, and she finds that she desperately wants to continue this tradition, or at least to leave an opening for it to happen again. Following an impulse that she doesn't want to name, she makes him an offer that she hopes will convey all of the things she's currently thinking and feeling.

"Hey, uh, Matt? If you ever need another drink of whiskey to… y’ know, take the edge off, I uh... I've probably got some. Just sayin'."  
  
A beat passes and he raises his head to meet her gaze. Even though his gaze is technically blank beneath his glasses, he manages to give the look weight and meaning, assuring her that he heard and accepted her invitation. If he were sighted, she imagines that he would be looking her dead in the eye, and she has a passing thought of gratitude that he _isn't_ so he _can't_.  
  
"Thanks, Jessica."  
  
The smile he gives her in return is small but dazzling. That strange spark makes a repeat, albeit fleeting, appearance in her chest, but she does her damnedest to push it down. Because this is definitely not the time for that.  
  
"Don't mention it. No really, _don't_. Or I'll kick your ass. Got it?”  
  
He bites his tongue to silence a laugh, but only just. "Noted."  
  
Their private conversation ends as they cross the length of the lobby area to the conference room and check in with everyone else. After reviewing their individual assignments and the next group meeting time, they all splinter off to accomplish their tasks. If she just so happens to notice that she and Matt are both in slightly better spirits as they both go on their merry ways, she'll chalk it up to the whiskey.

And she'll also blame the whiskey for the inexplicable hope she has that this is the first of many conversations to come with him.

\---

The next time that she notices herself noticing Matt is after he comes limping into the office a week or so later after a particularly strong asshole apparently landed a few well-placed hits the previous night.  
  
He tries to cover his uneven gait with sarcastic comments and a forced smile, even going so far as to distract everyone by handing out pastries and coffee he picked up on his way into the office. It works on everyone but her, which should really come as no surprise to him. But she waits a bit before calling him out, playing along in the meantime and letting him think his ruse has tricked her. He finally retreats to his office after performing his smokescreen act, and she watches him intently, catching him wince and exhale raggedly as he sits down at his desk. He shifts slightly to the right, favoring that side as he sits, and she wonders if he has somehow fractured something in his foot, in addition to the ribs he’s likely broken, or if it's merely a sprain. She finally decides that she can't live with the suspense of wondering and gets up to ask.  
  
She walks into his office with a Cheshire Cat grin and makes herself at home in the chair facing him as he leans his elbows on the desk. He removes his glasses and rubs a hand over his eyes with a heavy sigh and a decidedly unenthusiastic tone.  
  
"Jessica, it's too early in the day for me to play your games, especially after the night I had. So just cut to the chase, and tell me what you want."  
  
"Well, clearly someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Or, maybe it's just those broken ribs you naively thought you could keep secret, along with whatever it is you did to your foot. I know you're a bit of a masochist due to the whole Catholic thing, but I always took you for a realist. Because believing that you're going to power through for an entire day here only to get in another fight this evening when we inevitably encounter the Hand- again- is pushing it. But to think you can do all of that without being found out seems like a stretch, even for you."  
  
His glare is not directed right at her face, but it's telling of his response nonetheless. Yet she continues undeterred.  
  
"Look, I don't particularly care if you're too stupid to ask for help when you're hurt. But if you're trying to put on some sort of show so that Claire doesn't find out and you don't have to interact with her, that is a genuinely idiotic plan. I hate to break it to you, but you're no Meryl Streep, and when she inevitably finds out that you were trying to hide this from her, it's just going to get worse. Because then she'll want to know what's going on, and I'm gonna guess that's not a conversation that you would want to have."  
  
His sullen silence is enough of an answer for her to know that she's right. But something about the pained look on his face takes all the fun out of that fact. With a roll of her eyes that she swears he should be able to hear for how it's exaggerated, she decides to offer him a little help.  "You’re gonna have to speak with her eventually, so what is it going to take to get you to do it? A cookie? Some whiskey? Moral support?"  
  
She had meant the latter as something of a joke, which she would assume he could hear in her flat tone, but when she sees the minute sigh of relief he gives as she mentions it, she gives an internal groan at the prospect. But as she considers the idea, she realizes that he would likely offer to do the same for her. And from what she has heard of healthy adult friendships, they generally include reciprocity as a main tenet. With a long-suffering sigh she makes a show of being put out by the task, but something tells her he’ll know that it's a bit of a farce.  
  
"Fine, then. Let's go and get this over with. I have other shit to do."  He cocks his head in a silent question, too afraid to actually ask for confirmation of what she's planning.  She stands up and crosses her arms. "Are you coming or not? Because I need to leave eventually, and I won't be willing to go with you to talk to her later today if you change your mind."  
  
He hesitates for a moment before accepting her offer. He stands slowly, trying to brace himself against his desk and exhaling deeply as he does so. Once he is up, he gives her a small, sheepish smile. “Thanks, Jess.”

She huffs exasperatedly to cover the smirk that is threatening to come out at how cute he can be when he's not hiding behind his bravado. “Whatever. It's as much for my benefit as your; when Claire's not happy, you know how bad it is for all of us.”

She turns and walks through his door toward the conference room where Claire is currently sitting. As soon as Jessica hears Matt follow behind her, she calls out to get Claire's attention. “Hey Claire! Can you settle a bet between me and Murdock?”

Claire raises her eyebrow as she walks out to meet them in the lobby area. The skepticism in her answering tone is thick. “That depends. What is this bet about?”

Jessica crosses her arms and leans into her hip, assuming a casual pose. She nods in Matt's direction absently. “Well, ‘Daredevil’ here was just telling me about a particularly nasty fight he nearly lost last night after we all parted ways. Claims he took a steel-toed boot to the toes, and then the ribs, but he's barely even limping this morning. I'm not convinced he really got into a fight, let alone that he broke something, but he says at least one rib is busted. So we need your expert opinion to settle this. And, the winner owes the other a bottle of whiskey… so if you could help me out real quick, that would be great.”

The sigh that Claire gives them both is nothing sort of legendary in its ability to communicate so many emotions at once- exasperation, incredulity, frustration, disappointment, and concern among the most obvious. She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes as she chides at them.

“Matt, you’ve got to be more careful, or you're going to get yourself killed one of these days. And Jessica, do you really have to egg him on like that? You know how he is. Don't encourage him.” Claire turns and walks toward the makeshift infirmary she has set up in Foggy’s old office, calling to them over her shoulder as she goes. “Come on. Let’s see how bad it is.”

Jessica leans in towards Matt, smirking, and whispers. “You're welcome, by the way.”

Matt shakes his head to keep himself from laughing as he follows behind Claire, still a bit uneasy, but feeling lighter than he has in days. And doesn't that just get him thinking...

Maybe there's something to that feeling when he’s around Jessica. He decides he needs more data before he can draw a conclusion, though, so now he just needs a reason to spend more time with her. He uses this puzzle as a way to distract himself from the pain he feels at Claire's prodding fingers, and breathes a sigh of relief when she finishes digging into his ribcage. Incidentally, it's at this same time that an idea strikes him. Now he just needs to convince Jessica to take him up on his offer. He knows that might be the trickiest part of all.


	2. Chapter 2: A.K.A. Cloak and Dagger

Matt Murdock prides himself on the fact that he is not an easy read. Not truly. He revels in the fact that people misread him constantly. All it takes is one look at his cane or his glasses, and people automatically write him off as harmless, unassuming, or at worst - useless. When he was younger this bothered him, but he has long since stopped taking it personally. Ableism runs rampant in society, and at this point, he's almost glad for it. Because the flippant way people disregard him allows him to fly under the radar and do what it is that he does.  
  
As such, he is unaccustomed to being accurately pinned down after a cursory glance. He hates the feeling of it (on the rare occasion when someone looks past his blindness and tries), has hated it since Stick first did it to him the day they met. In fact, that may be part of the reason he has made it a point to try to remain elusive and enigmatic about his true self since, unable to be categorized or pegged in all but very few circumstances. And for the most part he's very successful. Usually, the only people that see past his facade to the real him are the ones to which he allows the privilege.  
  
But all of that changes when he meets Jessica Jones. Because Jessica Jones is different. She sees right through him from the moment that they meet, and Matt hates her for it. Or at least he wants to. He wants to glare at her when he notices her in his periphery or feels her intense gaze taking stock of him out the corner of her eye, wants to snap at her when she asks disarming and pointed personal questions, wants to tell her to take her invasive perceptiveness and shove it...  
  
But a small (yet fast-growing) part of him actually wants to embrace her for it. This part of him wants to turn into her gaze rather than away, to present himself freely, to let down his drawbridge and allow her passage into his inner realm. Because he has practically no one left who sees the real him these days, and the facade which he used to pride himself on maintaining is beginning to feel like a burden, as though he's suffocating under the weight of the oppressive silence and lonely artifice he has constructed around himself.  
  
He is taken aback by this revelation when it occurs to him. Because at first glance, Jessica Jones is nothing like the type of people he typically gravitates toward for any kind of relationship. She's hard and guarded where Foggy is open and friendly. She's crass and abrasive where Karen is warm and empathetic. She's cold and forceful where Elektra was fiery and charming. She's impatient and erratic where Claire is steady and calm. Yet the way that she can see him, _really_ _see_ him, in spite of the front he presents, makes resisting her the last thing that he wants to do. He finds her inexplicably compelling and with each new interaction they have, he comes away craving more. More of her time, more of her sarcastic humor, more of _her_ and the history of how she came to be who she is.  
  
Maybe that's why he finds himself inviting her to coffee several days later. That, and because she really saved his ass by preventing him from having to face Claire alone. (He feels a lot more comfortable about the latter reasoning, though, so that's the one he'll claim if Jessica happens to ask what brought this on.)  
  
He knows with his logical mind that it was juvenile, but he couldn't bring himself to speak with Claire alone- to be so close to her, to have her touching him with her graceful fingers when all he wanted to do was kneel at her feet and apologize for the way he pushed her away, even though he knew ( _still knows_ ) they aren't meant to be together. He has never felt as alone as he has in the past several months, and every time he looks at her, the memories of the few moments that he shared with Claire burn bright in his memory like a siren's lighthouse that marks the way forward, but always remains out of reach, no matter how hard he stretches.

So the idea that Jessica was willing to come with him while he talked to Claire and to act as his anchor, keeping him from drifting aimlessly into his regrets and making a fool out of himself, was remarkable to him. On their way back from Foggy’s old office, he found that he almost couldn't believe Jessica's kindness and for a moment he wondered at it and how incongruous it seemed coming from her. But as he considered the thought, he realized that maybe this time he was the party guilty of misreading, and that thought filled him with shame as much as curiosity. He decided she deserved a second look from him (maybe even an apology) in addition to a show of his gratitude for her assistance with Claire. Surely inviting her to chat over a cup of coffee was a fitting setting for such an occasion.  
  
The only problem with his plan was that he wasn't entirely prepared for her to say yes, and he was even less prepared for the flood of warmth in his chest when she did. But he forces himself not to think about that now; they're just two people who work together, hanging out and getting to know one another in order to, maybe, become better friends. What could possibly go wrong with that plan?

\---

He struggles not to feel awkward on the walk to the coffee shop. Performing his blindness in public is second nature to him at this point, but with Jessica's silent presence to his left and the slight rustle of her hair as she periodically turns toward him, likely looking at him out of the corner of her eye, he can't help but feel that she is watching and evaluating his performance. It makes him very uncomfortable, and he briefly wonders if she is intentionally playing a game- trying to make him uneasy or make a point about her power over him because she doesn't buy his act. Thankfully the walk to the coffee shop is short, so he doesn't have to endure it for too terribly long.

Once they are inside and have their drinks, she leads them to a table in the back corner of the cafe, one that is removed from the other patrons. A heavy, tense silence starts to descend between them, and he takes a drink of his coffee, relishing the complex flavor while debating internally with himself about how to broach the topic that he assumes is stuck on her tongue. He finally decides that when it comes to Jessica, direct is likely best.

"So, do I pass your test?" His attempt at an acerbic tone must amuse her because she snorts at him.  
  
"What?" It's more of a scoff than a question.  
  
"Well, with the way you keep watching me, I figured you had to be looking for something. Assessing maybe. And given what I know of how your mind works, I think I know what you're looking for. So if you want to ask, just ask." He covers his impatience by playing at nonchalance and taking a sip of his coffee. If she notices this as a performance on his part, she says nothing of it.

Instead, he imagines she raises an eyebrow at him while he hears her click her tongue and chuckle under her breath. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was even smiling at him.  
  
"Ok, Sherlock. Maybe you're not totally oblivious." She takes a measured breath followed by a long sip from her cup. He knows that she's stalling, but for now he lets her; it feels nice to have her on the defensive for once, and he savors every second of the exchange. After all, he's not sure when she might turn the tables again and throw him off balance with her razor sharp tongue and her nearly telepathic perceptiveness. He spares a passing thought to wonder if that was also a by-product of her other _gifts_ or if she has always been observant to the extreme. After a few moments, he raises his eyebrow at her and tilts his head to the side silently, waiting for her to continue.  
  
She sighs resignedly before she leans in a little closer and pitches her voice low so that only he will be able to hear her.  
  
"Well, if you really want to know, I was fascinated by how different you're acting. You play the part of being blind really well when you're in public, but when it's just the group of us, you don't. And obviously you don't when you're ... _galavanting_ around the city. So, barring the fact that I still may not exactly understand how your senses actually work, I can't figure out why you still pretend to be… normal. Or normal-ish. If I had to guess, I'd say that you're putting up a front to protect your identity, but that also doesn't make a lot of sense to me because you're not doing the lone wolf thing anymore. The rest of us all have the luxury of being _gifted_ and normal at the same time. At this point, wouldn't your life be a lot easier if you were just honest about who you are and what you can do?"  
  
In a turn of events that shouldn't actually surprise him, he misread her. Again. Or at least in part, and as such he finds himself momentarily dumbfounded, reaching helplessly for words that don't seem to want to come.  
  
A few beats of silence pass, and with them so does her calm and collected demeanor. He listens as her heart rate begins to accelerate and she huffs an anxious sigh. "Shit. Guess I said too much. Trish always said I had an unmatched talent for sticking my foot in my mouth. Just forget it.” She moves to get up, but he immediately reaches out to grab her hand to prevent her from doing so.

Their hands touch, and as they do, he picks up a flurry of sensory input from her. He hears her heart rate spike violently along with an increase of the rhythm of her breathing, and he simultaneously picks up on the flood of adrenaline that is released as her entire body tenses, buzzing with potential energy to fight or flee.

Jessica registers her instinctive flinch at his touch as she forces a ragged exhale to calm the flood of anxiety and corticosteroids which have begun coursing through her system. She is still using the street name trick to help ground herself when she's triggered, though she has now moved on to  reciting it in her head instead of aloud (because, baby steps). As she works to calm her racing heart, she spares an incredulous look at him for being able to pinpoint the exact placement of her hand. She makes a mental note to have an in depth discussion about how the hell he can do that at some point soon (enhanced senses, _indeed_ ). As she forces another measured exhale, she also decides to give him a quick guide to her physical boundaries too, because she handled him grabbing her hand remarkably well just now, but he might not be so lucky next time. She snatches her hand back reflexively, distantly aware that he has retreated and offered her some additional space between them. Reluctantly, she settles back into her seat, maintaining a tense, closed off posture in the extra space he provided her.

He pitches his voice low and uses the most soothing tone he can muster. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I won't do that again.”

He feels her relax minutely and listens as her heart rate slowly decelerates to a more normal range.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He's practically whispering, but it still feels like it's almost too much sound in the super-charged air surrounding them.

He notices a sliver of her usual strength and resolve peek through the anxiety as she shakes her head once. “ _No_. I'm fine. Just give me a minute.” She fights against the tightness and shuddering in her voice by sucking in a large, slow breath.

He sits, silent and still as he gives her time to calm herself. After blowing out a long, steady exhale, she runs a hand through her hair and settles a little further into her chair. “I'm okay.” Her tone still contradicts her words, but she fixes him with a pointed look he can feel, and he gives a slight nod as he attempts to pick up their previous conversation.

“Look, Jess. It's fine. You didn't say anything wrong. Really. I may have just forgotten how direct you can be. But it's alright. I only needed a minute to think."  
  
“And now that you've had one?" Her tone is still guarded, though it wavers considerably less than it did moments ago.

His logical brain picks this moment to catch up and process all the input he has gathered from her in the last few minutes. As he replays the whole interaction in his head from start to finish, it dawns on him what it must mean for her and what kind of events she's endured in the past. With that realization comes fury, sharp and burning as it blooms in his stomach- the likes of which he hasn't felt since facing down Fisk in prison. Matt says a quick prayer for her and her strength in the face of her suffering as she battles whatever evils still haunt her. Then he files it all away for a future conversation… if she ever agrees to speak to him about, that is.

With a sip of coffee and a sigh, he calms himself and returns to the present moment.

"... You're not necessarily wrong. My life would be infinitely easier if I 'came out' to the world and stopped working so hard to maintain my cover as Matt Murdock. But the truth is... I still like being me. I like having a separate life in which I can pretend to be normal. I only ever wanted to save people, not to be a hero - some symbol that people could distort and bastardize to fit their own purposes. And despite what you might think, I became a lawyer for a reason. I believe in the law, or I'd like to be able to, and I still feel very strongly about fighting for justice. But just think- if people knew what I do when I'm not being a lawyer, do you have any idea what that would do to my career? Or to the legal community in this city? Toppling Fisk’s empire and uncovering all the corruption behind it had a bad enough impact on people's perception of law enforcement, but to know that I, as one of the most outspoken defense attorneys on the New York Bar, was working outside of the law as a vigilante and beating up people just like my clients? The entire system would fracture under the weight of people's fears and distrust. I can't be a part of that."  
  
She sits silently for a moment, blinking at him with a raised eyebrow. "Well, shit.” She takes a drink, buying time and formulating a fitting response. It seems that she may not have him entirely pegged after all. She finally settles on a smirk and some sarcasm in her response (as if she would have ever actually chosen anything different). “Underneath that corny devil suit you're nothing but a romantic idealist, aren't you? And here I thought you actually enjoyed the ‘cloak and dagger’ shit.”

He huffs a laugh and smirks back at her. “Have you ever really looked at my suit? Or imagined what it would be like to wear it while running around, chasing after criminals? It may be protective, but it's far from comfortable. Never having to wear it again- that’s the most tempting part of ‘retiring’ Daredevil.”

Her laugh at that is genuine and it makes her feel a fleeting warmth and lightness that could be a lot like happiness… if she had any experience with which to compare it. She reflects on the fact that it is a strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one. She wonders if she could get used to it- if it were to come up more often. A small voice in the back of her head tries to point out that it _is_ starting to come up more often. When she's with Matt, at least. But she ignores it for now, unwilling to look too closely at such an idea.

Though he can't exactly see it, Matt gets a sense of the revelation she is having from the energy she is emitting. He finds that he is coming to enjoy this other side of her that he is getting increased access to the longer they talk and spend time together- this brightness where he had previously felt her cold distance. With a creeping sense of disappointment, he notices how close his cup is to empty, signaling the end of their time together. In attempt to keep up their developing pattern of informal meetings and to avoid losing any progress with their increasing friendliness, he decides to ask her to meet up with him again later in the week.

“Well, I'm due back at the office to meet a client soon, but this was… almost fun.”

She tries to hide her answering smile behind a last drag from her coffee. “Yeah, I guess it beats looking at Rand’s stupid face.”

Matt tries and fails to stifle a chuckle. He feels some measure of empathy for the guy even if he tends to agree with Jessica's assessment of him most of the time. “He's trying. He's come a long way since he first showed up here.”

“I guess, but I still wouldn't willingly spend any amount of time with him. Not unless I was getting paid a ridiculous amount of money. And even then, I'd probably still complain.”

He stops even trying to contain his laughter. She hopes he is so busy laughing that he doesn't notice how her heart skips at the sound. Despite her anxiety about him noticing how he affects her, her own realization of her growing comfort level with him likely has a lot to do with the unnamed impulse that leads her to agree to his plan, and with virtually no hesitation. “But you? You're alright, I guess. And it wouldn't be the _worst_ thing to do this again… or at least something like it. But next time, let's not settle for coffee when it would be so much more fun to drink alcohol.”

“Fair enough. Where did you have in mind?” Barring Josie's (which he is still hesitant to frequent since he hasn't technically made up with Foggy and Karen has been taking some space and time to process), he has no idea where else might be a good place to go.

With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Jessica smiles at him. “Well lucky for you, if there's one thing I have an opinion about, it's whiskey and where to go to drink it. I'll text you the place. Thursday after work?”

He fights to hold back a grin of which the true intensity could only be labeled as beatific. “You're on, Jones.”

And just like that, they are starting to get the hang of this friendship thing. And he relishes the warmth that builds in his chest at the thought.


	3. Chapter 3: A.K.A. It's Called Self-Medication

The bar that she suggests is one that is relatively close to her apartment, meaning that she would have to work to be late meeting him. Not that it couldn't happen, but that it would take some actual effort. But true to form, something comes up at the last minute, and she gets held up on the way out of the door by a potential client. They always seem to catch her at inconvenient times, but money is money. She tries to make it a quick meeting, mostly just to get basic intake information and get a contract signed, and she shoots Matt a quick text letting him know she'll be late due to a walk-in. He replies back quickly, telling her that it's no problem and that he'll find a way to entertain himself until she's finished. She pays it no further mind and goes about her business. An agreement is reached with her client in record time, and the woman leaves, allowing Jessica to start cleaning her desk and putting away all the paperwork and evidence the woman brought to her.

Just as she bends down to put a stack of papers in the bottom drawer of her desk, she hears her door creak open. This triggers an ingrained fear response, despite the fact that her conscious mind _knows_ the situation has been rectified; Kilgrave is dead and has no chance of recovering this time because she made **sure** of it. Regardless, her heart immediately starts pounding and she raises herself back up in a rush. On instinct, she reaches for the baseball bat that she's taken to keeping in the corner between her bookshelf and the wall, which she now uses to threaten people when they decline to take her verbal warnings seriously. It's much easier than actually having to punch people in the face to show them that she is _not_ one to be trifled with (and it has saved her door from seeing any more abuse). But as soon as her eyes land on the silhouette of the person in the doorway, backlit by the harsh lights from the hall, she curses in exasperation.

“Jesus, Murdock! Would it kill you to knock? Not everyone has super senses like you do. What the hell are you even doing here, anyway?”

He steps further into the room, closing the door behind him, then crosses to her desk, folding up his cane before leaning on the chair closest to the kitchen. “Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. Just thought that, because I was in the neighborhood and had time to kill until you were ready, I might as well meet you here. And I figured that way I could come ‘see’ your place.”

She puts the bat back in its spot in the corner and returns to cleaning up her desk. “Yeah? Well, ta-fucking-da. It's not nearly as nice as your place, or so I hear. Hope it meets your _lofty_ expectations.”

He snorts a laugh at her. “You remember you're talking to a blind guy, right?”

She rolls her eyes and huffs at him, closing the bottom drawer with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

He smirks. “But seriously, even if I can't see it in the traditional sense, I can still _see_ it. In a way. And it seems… fairly clean, minimalistic, and professional without being sterile. Gives a good first impression. I like it.”

Her hands slow their current task in putting her camera away as she listens to his analysis, turning her head and raising an eyebrow at him. “Really? You get all of that through your… ‘radar’ senses, or whatever the fuck they are?”

He chuckles. “Well, I wouldn't call it radar, exactly.  But yeah, I get all that. And a little more.”

Now she's intrigued. She can't help but ask him to elaborate, though she uses an incredulous tone to mask her interest. “Like what?”

He's silent for a moment, intent- like he's focusing on something she isn't seeing. Her own attention is rapt on him, she realizes, and subsequently she wonders if he is noticing that too. And then she is consumed with questions and a desire to know if that's the type of thing he might be able to notice... (but why does she suddenly care if it is?). Luckily, before she can pay that train of thought much more mind, he is speaking again.

“Well… the last client you had? It was a woman. Her perfume smelled of ... jasmine and gardenia, with some sandalwood notes underneath.”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms at him. “I'm unimpressed. You could have passed her coming out of the elevator and smelled it then.”

He moves to sit in the chair he had been leaning against moments before. “Fair. But I didn't have to. I can still smell it right here. She sat in this chair.”

Her eyes narrow as she considers how he may have been able to know that. But at the same time, with only two choices from which to pick, his odds were pretty good.

“Lucky guess. What else you got?” She sits in her office chair, steepling her fingers and crossing her feet, which she places on top of her desk.

“Well… I know that there are several empty bottles of whiskey scattered around throughout the rest of your apartment. There's only one in this room, though- it's in the wastebasket to the left of your desk. It was Jack Daniels, which you prefer but don't always carry with you, probably because it isn't the cheapest. But you must have finished this bottle recently as the scent is still fairly strong, the last dregs haven't evaporated yet, like with the others.”

She eyes him skeptically still unsure if she considers this more than a very lucky guess made by someone who just happens to be fairly observant for being blind. “Go on.”

“Your next door neighbor the right isn't home, but the neighbor to your left is. He's currently typing on a laptop and listening to music with his headphones. Sounds like an indie folk band of some kind- I can’t keep them all straight.”

That sure sounds like something Malcolm might be doing. Was there a way he could have met him before, or maybe on the way in? She chews the inside of her lip as she tries to imagine different scenarios. “Fine. What else?”

He raises his head as though to look at her, brows drawn in indecision. He shifts forward in the chair, resting elbows on his knees and sits silently for a moment, as though deciding what path to take next to best illustrate his abilities to her. After a beat, he shifts back to sit against the back of the chair, his fingers drumming along its arms. He exhales once, then continues.

“Your bedroom is through the doorway behind and to my right. The bedding has been laundered relatively recently, as I can still smell the Downy. But there's another blanket, not on the bed but folded on a chair in the corner, and I’d guess it hasn't been washed, or even really touched, in some time… since it still smells very faintly of Luke.”

A faint blush rises on her cheeks as she simultaneously flinches at this. She bites the inside of her lip harder to keep quiet as he continues his assessment of her apartment.

“The wall directly across from me butts up against a hallway, one connecting your bedroom to your kitchen. There must have been a pretty significant brawl here at some point as there are patches all over it where someone tried to cover the holes beneath, but the repair work isn't quite even with the original plaster. And there are hollow spots underneath, as if something or _someone_ was thrown all the way through.”

A scowl curls her lip at the memory of the incident he is describing; she remembers Simpson’s blind rage, her pain as she fought him with broken ribs, and her terror for Trish when the pills overloaded her system. Her heart begins to race at the memory.

She will give him the benefit of the doubt- that's all pretty remarkable. But all of it is ambient and environmental stuff. She still wants to know what kind of abilities he has at reading people. Heart beating hard in her chest, she stares hard at him, silently daring him to go deeper, to use his gifts on her.

“Anything else, _Rain Man_?”

He notices a flush creeping up her neck as her heart flutters and speeds incrementally. He gives her a knowing look in response. “I think you're asking for something much more specific than ‘anything’. _”_

“Fine. Impress me, then.” The words come out in an over-exaggerated challenge to cover the hesitation she feels internally.

He sits totally still, tension building between them by the moment, though it isn't necessarily a bad kind of tension. She finds that she is holding her breath in anticipation of what he will say. He lifts his head minutely, attempting to meet her eyes and look at her intentionally. Even if he's still wearing his glasses, it's a good approximation of where she's looking. He exhales, and it almost comes out sounding like a sigh.

“You're scared, or you were when I came in. And not Halloween jump-scare afraid; I'm talking scared-for-your-life kind of fear. My surprise visit triggered your amygdala which activated your fight or flight response, causing all of your muscles to tense, your heart rate to increase, your breathing to quicken, and your temperature to rise as your adrenaline spiked. You still aren't quite calm. And it doesn't help that I've made you nervous with my assessments.”

Strangely, his words help to bring her a bit of comfort as they narrate her inner experience perfectly. She relaxes a fraction of the tension that was building in her frame. Her lack of resistance seems to bolster his nerve, and he continues his analysis of her.

“You haven't eaten much today, hence the empty bottle of whiskey, and there seem to be excessive amounts of other corticosteroids in your system- the kind that get released along with adrenaline when your amygdala goes on red alert. Probably residual amounts left over from other times in the last few days when something or someone triggered you. And likely contributing to your aforementioned liquid diet. But even though I can tell _what_ is happening to you... I still don't know exactly why.”

She instantly bristles at his words, a scowl forming and all traces of humor disappearing from her face. She stands abruptly, kicking her chair back from her desk forcefully, and walks to the kitchen where she finds an unopened bottle of whiskey. In one quick, continuous motion, she breaks the seal and immediately starts to guzzle generous swigs of the liquor. She savors the burn at the back of her throat as she swallows, then she pauses to take a breath.

He stands and follows behind her slowly, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen as he apologizes. “Sorry. Clearly that's a delicate subject.”

She has a fleeting thought that it's a terrible shame he's blind and can't see the flat, exasperated look she’s giving him. So she tries to make up for it with the cutting edge in her tone. “Yeah. Which is why I don't just bring it up in casual conversation.”

“Right. And I won't either. Not again. Jess, I’m truly sorry.” He hangs his head and thinks for a moment. “Is there anything I can do? Anything that might help?”

He has the grace to look chagrined, and it tempers her anger by a degree or two. It doesn't appear as though his intentions are malicious; she can almost believe that he is just curious, just trying to understand her.

But to ask what she needs? Jessica has absolutely no idea how to even process that question because no one has asked it before. Except for Trish, but since she's practically an angel anyway, she isn't sure Trish counts in this case. Try as she might, it doesn't compute. Her brain just doesn't have the context within which she can comprehend and believe what he's asking. All of it creates a buzz of anxiety in her chest that she does not have the capacity to cope with right now, so she shoves it down and goes back to what has worked for her thus far, healthy or not.

She takes another large pull from the bottle before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She licks her lips and gives him a hard stare. “Well, since you originally came here to have a drink with me, let's go do that. But now you're buying. Two rounds at least.” She moves back to her desk to retrieve her coat from the back of her chair. He can't help but laugh when she first takes one final drink of whiskey before pulling the jacket on, one sleeve a time.

“You know, some people would consider it redundant to drink _before_ going to a bar.”

“It's called _self-medication_  And it's still cheaper than therapy, so fuck you." She realizes too late that she was practically snarling at him. And she didn't mean to. Not really. Closing her eyes and forcing herself to take a deep breath, she speaks lowly, attempting a kind of apology.  
  
"Look, they might call you the ‘Devil of Hell's Kitchen', but I've actually met the devil. And he was nothing like you. He was ... a lot of god-awful things that I can't make myself forget, no matter how hard I try. So sue me if drinking helps.”

With the little that he has pieced together of her history, he can only imagine the terrors she sees on the insides of her eyelids when she closes them or tries to sleep. He feels a pang of guilt at the sharp remarks he has sent her way over the last few weeks. Reproach colors his tone as he offers his own apology.

“Jess, I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to be judgmental or assume that I have any clue about what your life is like. If going to the bar is what you want to do, let’s go. Just know that if you ever want to do something else- something other than drinking- I'm here. To listen or to hang out or to do whatever you need.”

Something about his words strikes her right in the chest, making her heart ache to do as he is offering. But her conscious mind has a much different opinion of how she should be reacting to such an offer. “God, you sound like Trish.”

He can’t suppress a laugh at her derisive tone. “Good.”

That gives her pause. She cocks an eyebrow at him. “What the hell do you mean, ‘good’?”

“Well, just that. From what I know of Trish, she’s a great person, and it sounds like she's been a very good friend to you. If you think I sound like her, then I am clearly on the right track, whether or not you want to take me up on my offer.”

“Uhhhgg, fine. Just… thanks. Or whatever. But I’m leaving now. Are you coming?”

He turns slightly toward the door, arm outstretched in a grand gesture. “Lead the way.”

She all but pushes him out of the door first, and she pauses for a moment as she locks it, considering his offer and how it sounds like it could be something she might actually want to do. Eventually. She brushes it off, though, when she sees him waiting for her at the elevator.

For now, they’ve got some drinking to do.

\---

The walk to the bar is short, though chilly, thanks to the winter air. Jessica shoves her hands a little further into her pockets and ducks her chin further into her scarf as they walk. She can't tell if the cold bothers Matt, but if he feels everything more acutely, she can’t see how it wouldn’t.

As they walk inside, she watches him, trying to take stock of his impression of the bar. She feels completely at home in a dive like this, but she hasn't been able to put a finger on the level of finery he is accustomed to. He doesn’t strike her as the stuffy, rich type (how Danny often comes across) but he is a lawyer, after all. So far, he seems comfortable enough, and she breathes an internal sigh of relief that her instincts were right.

They step up to the counter and she orders a double of whiskey, neat, plus four shots. He raises his eyebrows at her and chuckles lowly as he orders a beer and opens a tab.

“Is any of that for me?” He nods his head to where the bartender is pouring the shots.

“We’ll see how generous I'm feeling. But if the past thirty minutes are any indication, things aren't looking good for you.” Her mood is lifting, and she feels like she is shedding the layers of anxiety and fear that had started to overwhelm her earlier. Matt feels this too and smirks contentedly when she turns back to the bar to tip the bartender.

Drinks in hand, she leads him to a booth in the back corner near the window, and they settle in. Matt sips his beer slowly, feeling out the bar and its patrons as Jessica inconspicuously people-watches. They sit in companionable silence for a bit, but eventually her curiosity gets the better of her. She throws back a shot to bolster her nerve, and turns in the booth, bringing one foot up on the seat, while the other she leaves to sprawl under the table, her back against the brick wall behind her.

“So, what the hell is with your crazy senses? How do you do all that?”

She’s not sure that she didn't do it a bit intentionally, but she asks him just as he is taking a generous pull from his beer. A beat passes as he swallows and brings his drink back down to the table. It's a measured gesture, as though he's considering- trying to decide what to say, how much to share, where to begin.

“Well, I was in an accident, back when I was about nine. Some cars had collided on one of the streets in our neighborhood, and there was a semi carrying some chemicals that was turning over in the chaos. An old man was standing in the way of the impending crash and I pushed him out of the way, leaving me to take the brunt of it. Long story short, the chemicals made me lose my sight, but they significantly enhanced all of my other senses. Eventually, a little of my sight came back as I healed, though it isn't sight in the way you'd think of it. But with that, the other sensory input I can read, and all of the things I can feel- changes in air direction, density, temperature, and movement to name a few- I can ‘see’ the world in my own way.”

“Damn. So that's how you don't get your ass handed to you when you fight. Usually, at least.” She can’t pass up the opportunity to add a good jab, though she’s sure he knows it's in jest. But as she thinks through what he’s said, a frown of concentration dawns on her face as she thinks through all the possible uses for his senses. “With all you could read from me earlier, I bet that comes in handy with your clients.”

“Well ... I try not to do it intentionally, at least most of the time. But, yeah. I can usually tell when someone is lying.”

She frowns harder at him, considering. She’s got a guess, but she’d rather hear it straight from the source. “How?”

“Variations in heart-rate, just like-”

“Like a lie-detector. Damn.” She cuts him off, speaking in tandem with him as she realizes how his powers work in this context. He nods and she looks at him over the rim of another shot. Variations in heart-rate, huh? She’s got a sneaking suspicion about that...

She throws back the shot and throws caution to the wind as she decides to press him about it. “So, when it comes to reading heart-rate variations... well, I imagine that there are _other_ uses for that. Maybe, more ... personal ones.” She gives him a look that is weighted and emphasized with a low, pointed tone. Surely he will understand what she's getting at even if he can't see the look that accompanies the question.

But true to form, he doesn't. Or worse, he pretends like he doesn't just to make her have to say it out loud. “I'm not sure I know what you're talking about. But I'd be happy to answer any specific questions you have.”

He wants to play that way? Fine. She's not afraid to ask, and she won't back down from a challenge like that. She does one more shot, and this proves to be the fuel she needs to push on. “Come on, Murdock. Don't tell me that it's never come in handy with women.”

The flush that rises to his cheeks is a thing of beauty. She has to chew on her lip to keep from laughing at him as he stutters and tries to regain his composure enough to speak. “Wh- I don't know- Why does everyone always think I'm some kind of playboy? Really, I’m no-”

“Please. As if you aren't working the tall, dark, and handsome thing with a side of charming. Plus, you’ve got just the right amount of aloofness and tendency toward brooding to make you ‘complicated’, which plenty of women would fall all over themselves for. And then you add being an attorney on top of all that? God, what more do you think women want? I've seen the way you turn heads. Don't play coy with me.”

There is an unexpected jolt in his chest at her assessment of him. He can’t deny that he’s glad she’s  _noticed_ him in the context of attractiveness. But as soon as he gives that a second thought, he isn’t sure why he should suddenly be so invested in the opinion she has of him in that way. Especially because that was likely meant as not more than a joke from her, a sign of their increasing camaraderie. And he’s still glad for that, though perhaps a bit disappointed. Probably best to try joking back to steer them out of this suddenly delicate territory. “Uhhmm, thank you? Since I think that was supposed to be a compliment. Or at least adjacent to a compliment.”

“Bite me, you ass. You know it was.” She’s not actually mad, but the temptation to play at fighting with him is so strong that she just can’t help herself. And once she’s started, she’s curious to know what it would take to get him to blush again. “Don't act like you don't know you're handsome. That's a shitty thing to do, and it's not a good look on you. It makes you seem either egotistical or insecure. Or even worse- both.”

She picks up her glass and downs the rest of the whiskey in one breath. She watches in her periphery as he flushes again and tips his head down, telegraphing his unease at her words. But she catches something in his expression before he does- something about the furrow of his brow and the slight smile on the right corner of his mouth- and her heart flutters at the sight. Because she’s pretty sure that, despite being embarrassed by her words, he's pleased with them, and most interestingly of all, he's hopeful.

And in much the same way that pure, unadulterated joy is contagious, she feels a spark of hope flare to life in her own chest at the sight. But she’s pretty sure she's not drunk enough to handle that feeling, so she moves to the end of the booth to prepare to remedy that situation.

“Time for a refill. Need anything while I'm up?”

He doesn't raise his head when he answers her, instead choosing to temporarily remove his glasses and rub his eyes, thus avoiding addressing her directly. “No, I'm good.”

She stands, gathering the empty shot glasses into her free hand. “Suit yourself.”

As Jessica walks to the bar, she feels Matt's focus on her. But surprisingly, she finds she doesn't mind it. She might even revel in it. Just a little. Knowing that she's captured his attention so completely, especially when he is privy to so much other possible input, is a pretty heady feeling- enough that it gets her heart rate up. And then her raising pulse is made worse when some muttering drunk to her left bumps into her on his trek to the bar, causing her to startle. Immediately she takes internal stock of herself and as she does, she realizes just how quick her pulse is, and for it to be so high, it would have to have been up for a bit now, maybe even before she got up to go to the bar. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she considers what, exactly, that means. Because she knows that Matt can hear such a change, but now she understands that he's likely been listening to it change all night. The confidence that she felt moments before at the attention she had commanded from him leaves her in an instant, causing her to deflate. She tries to take a few deep breaths to calm herself down and figure out what she is going to do about this problem.

After she orders and steps aside to wait for her drinks to be ready, she casually turns her head to the side, as if surveying the patrons of the bar, but really she is surveying one patron in particular. From the glance that she gets of Matt, he appears intent, and there's a scowl on his face that was absent moments before. She tries to replay the last few minutes in her mind to determine why he might be scowling, but she comes up short. But this gives her hope that, perhaps, he wasn't as focused on her as she had feared. She much prefers that idea. With that in mind, she takes her drinks from the bartender and casually makes her way back to their booth.

As soon as she sits down, he turns to her, a look of concern on his face. “Are you alright? You seemed startled by that guy, but I didn't make out what he said to you. Did he upset you?”

Tension immediately melts out of her shoulders as she realizes that he had been reading her, but the reasons he attributed to her change in vitals are, conveniently, incorrect. But there's no reason he has to know that. Given her history, it’s totally feasible that she could have been upset by being accosted by a random guy in a bar, and Matt is intuitive enough to have put that together without ever hearing her story. Something about that makes a part of her want to tell him the rest. But the rest of her is unconvinced of that plan, and she takes a drink instead.

As she brings the glass down to the table, she shakes her head. “No, I'm fine. He was just some drunk asshole.”

She watches him assess her, and she has to work to maintain slow, relaxed breathing and a calm heart-rate. But she must manage it because after a beat he nods slightly and takes a sip from his beer. And now that she's escaped his suspicion, she allows herself to wonder about the attention he was showing her. Is it possible that he is attempting to determine her level of interest in him? And if so, does that not confirm his interest in her? She finds that she's hoping this is the case, though she can't imagine why. Why in the world should she care if he's interested in her?

Deciding that she needs to conduct an investigation into this query, she resumes their conversation from before.

“Okay. So if you won’t admit to how you use your abilities in the bedroom, can you at least tell me the different ways that you use it with people? What, exactly, can you sense about a person?”

He's silent for a moment, like he's unsure of her intention- maybe trying to decide if she's playing a joke on him or if she's truly interested. In the end, he must settle for genuine interest, because he opens his mouth to speak. But he’s still a little reluctant to explain, though he figures a little liquid courage would probably help him overcome it.

He gestures in the direction of the shots on the table in front of her, the supply of which she replenished on her trip to the bar. She squints at him up for a moment before sliding one across the table to him. He catches it effortlessly and shoots it in one smooth motion, a graceful movement with no sign of a flinch or grimace on his face. Something about the action pleases her, and she suddenly finds herself watching his throat work as he swallows and feeling… something unexpected as she does.

But then he's talking ( _thank_ _god_ ), and her attention once again shifts to their conversation.

“Well- anxiety, fear, anger, and … arousal, to name a few. Those are the big ones, usually. Hypothetically, I can sense any emotional state. All I have to do is read the temperature fluctuations, heart rate variations, perspiration levels, chemical reactions, and whatever else might be going on for them on a physiological level. And then I use all of the other environmental and contextual clues I can find to help round out the picture. I wasn't trying to be obtuse before; it's really not as sexy as you seem to think.”

She fixes him with an intense stare that is, sadly, lost on him. Though on second thought, maybe it's better this way, so she doesn't have to look him in the eyes or show him how vulnerable she is feeling right now. But she wonders how much of it he can read in the rest of her body. She takes a drink of whiskey to suppress a shiver at the thought. She brings the glass down, setting one edge of the bottom on the the table, holding it at the rim and spinning it back and forth.

“I don't know. That sounds pretty intimate.” Her voice is low, pointed- like she's trying to say two things at the same time.

But for once, even with his super senses, Matt is unable to parse the other meaning to which she’s alluding. Unless…

He really didn't intend to focus on her when she walked to the bar, but between the fact that it's a new place that he's not completely familiar with, and the fact that something about her attracts trouble like a highly contagious disease, he just wanted to be sure that she was alright. It didn't have anything to do with a few moments before, or the way that her pulse had quickened when she talked about him being attractive or how it had fluttered when he had asked if she was complimenting him, and it definitely didn't have anything to do with the way that a faint flush had risen on her cheeks at the sight of his own blush as she explained his attractiveness.

He flushes with embarrassment in the span of a millisecond, seeming to understand that he has, unintentionally walked right into her trap. And he feels shame down to his core to think that his observations of her, however unintentional they may have been, might have felt invasive.

“Shit, Jess. You're right. I-I'm sorry. I do try not to use my skills on people if I haven't been … invited to, because I understand how it can be a huge invasion of privacy. I'm sorry if I made you feel exposed or… violated earlier. I should have guessed that, considering…”

She raises an eyebrow at him in anticipation of how he will finish his thought. But after an awkward pause, she realizes that he is unsure of whether or not he should. She really wants to know what he's thinking but not saying, though.

“‘Considering’ what? What do you think that you know about me or why I might feel ‘violated’?” She is careful to convey curiosity instead of accusation in her tone. She's not offended (not _yet,_ anyway) and honestly just wants to know what understanding he thinks he has of her and her history.

He sits silently for a moment, picking at the label on his bottle of beer. After sighing and taking another large sip, he braces himself and gives her his honest assessment. She deserves at least that much.

“Well, I don't know very much. Only what I've put together through small interactions we've had. But I do know what PTSD looks like. And I’ve seen enough of the worst of humanity to guess that, regardless of the exact details of what took place with who or when, you didn't want whatever it was that happened to happen. But someone- some disgusting _asshole-_ didn't care about what you wanted. And … I'm sorry. Sorry that happened to you, and especially sorry if I've made it worse with anything I've said or done.”

She looks long and hard at all of the graffiti and carvings that litter the table top while she considers how to answer him. On the one hand, he's opened up a way for her to discuss whatever she wants to discuss about what happened, but simultaneously he has shown her that he knows enough to know he shouldn't push. And, honestly, he's done a pretty good job of being careful and considerate with whatever she's been willing to share so far. So now the question is what, if anything, does she want to share with him. She takes another drink, hoping that she'll find clarity at the bottom of her Collins glass. Instead, she finds a pleasant buzz that is dulling her sense of reality _just enough_ to be almost as good.

“Shit, Murdock. You're not such a bad P.I., yourself. I'd almost wonder if you could read my damn mind.” A sarcastic, joking response seems safest; that way she's not admitting too much, while still acknowledging his insight and interest.

The small smirk he gives tells her that he knows what she's doing but won't call her out on it. “I'm afraid not.”

“Probably for the best. No telling what you'd find in there.” She keeps her gaze low and away from him as she reaches for another shot and downs it.

He lifts his chin subtly in her direction. “Well, if it ever gets to be too much- dealing with all that's in your head by yourself- I'd be happy to listen to whatever you'd like to tell.”

“Thanks. But can we talk about something else? I did come here to _avoid_ my problems by drowning them in alcohol, you know.”

He shakes his head at her and chuckles. “Yes, we can talk about something else. I suppose I could use little escapism through alcohol too.”

“Well then - to shitty life experiences made survivable by whiskey.” She pushes a shot to him and raises up her own.

He smirks and picks it up, raising his hand in imitation of hers. “Cheers.”

After that the conversation takes a decidedly lighter turn. They even end up laughing as the night goes on. And laughing quite a lot. Turns out he's got a sense of humor wicked enough to match hers given the right circumstances (which consist of having three shots of whiskey and two beers, apparently). By the time they are leaving the bar and preparing to say goodbye for the night, she's almost sad to be parting from his company. She'd really like to do this again, but she needs to find a smoother and less conspicuous way to ask than just saying it outright.

“It was a nice change of pace tonight, not drinking alone... Maybe we could do this again sometime.”

He doesn’t even have to think about his answer. “I’d love to.”

She bites her lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. “Well, I'll text you the next time I want some company.”

“Sounds good.” They stand in an awkward silence for a moment, neither wanting to leave the other’s presence quite yet, but both knowing that they are skirting dangerous territory if they don't.

It's Matt that breaks first, putting his hands in his pockets and shrugging slightly as he says his goodbye. “Well, I should head home. I still need to do some patrolling, but can't stay out too late. I've got lots of work to do in the office tomorrow before we hit up Midland Circle.”

“Oh, by all means, Cinderella. I'd hate for you to turn into a pumpkin.”

The smile that she can't quite see in the low light of the street comes through in his voice. “‘Night, Jess.”

“‘Night.”

She turns right as he goes left, each heading to their respective apartments. With great effort, she refrains from pausing or looking back at him as she reaches the corner, and once she passes it, she lets out a strangled chuckle under her breath. She feels almost giddy on her walk home and tries to blame it on the whiskey. But she knows, somewhere in the back of her head, that there is a part of what she feels that can’t be blamed on the whiskey. Because that part comes courtesy of Matthew Murdock - Attorney at Law; A.K.A. Daredevil. And though she will vehemently deny it in public, internally, Jessica knows that it’s only a matter of time until she is head-over-heels for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. But right now, she just can’t bring herself to mind. That's a problem for future Jessica to solve.


	4. Chapter 4: A.K.A. Special Kind of Mind-fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the amazing stuckypocketguide for the cover art which comes from the last part of chapter four!

Matt Murdock has never actually been shot in a flesh wound kind of way (and thank God and Melvin for that), though it's not because he hasn't had ample opportunity with all the times he’s been _shot at_. But in the hallway on the forty-fifth floor of the Midland Circle building, in the midst of chaos and flying fists and kicking feet, he suddenly has a guess of what it might feel like if he were.

It happens in an instant when, suddenly, in the midst of a flurry of activity at the other end of the hallway, he senses her. Someone that he shouldn't be sensing. Someone who should be dead. Someone he observed being buried. A ghost. One he still sometimes misses. One he will, in some ways, always love. One he never expected to encounter again. But he knows her when he feels her, and it’s Elektra Natchios, herself. In the flesh, and in all her ass-kicking glory. And she might as well have fired a gun into his chest at point blank range for the way it incapacitates him. But he doesn't have a lot of time to ponder what she's doing here, because this time, she's not fighting beside him. She's fighting _against_ him and his team, and she's more ruthless than he's ever known her to be.

Seconds after be registers her vitals, he feels her take a running start toward the teammate closest to her- Jessica. But Jessica has her back to Elektra while taking down two other Hand members with a nasty uppercut to the jaw and a knee to the gut, respectively. Jessica pauses for little more than the space of a breath, but as she does, Elektra is closing the gap between them with astonishing speed, sais drawn and arms beginning to arch in preparation to strike. Matt feels like he is stuck in molasses, the world flashing by in slow motion as milliseconds tick away and Elektra gets closer and closer to Jessica. He registers a voice calling out, but it sounds as though it's underwater or somewhere far away as it pleads with Elektra to stop. Distantly he realizes that it's  _his_ voice, and suddenly reality snaps back into place for him, like a rubber band which had been stretched to its limit. As he comes back to the present, several things happen in quick succession, like dominoes falling one right after the other.

“Elektra, NO!”

Jessica's eyes snap to him, hearing the desperation in his voice and reading the trajectory of his look of confusion, spinning to find Elektra advancing on her.

Simultaneously, Elektra’s head turns sharply at the sound of his voice. Focus now fixed on him, she fluidly transitions her path in his direction, her momentum leading her to narrowly miss the blow Jessica launches at her head a half-second earlier.

In the time it takes for her to change course, Matt finds himself rushing toward Elektra, meeting her in the middle of the hallway, and throwing a punch from his left after blocking a kick from her. Elektra, however, blocks his punch with ease and uses all of her momentum to launch him into the opaque glass pane in the wall behind him. It shatters upon impact, and he has to fight against the ringing in his ears and disorientation that swells in his stomach as thousands of tiny shards land in a cacophony around him.

Before he can push himself up from the floor, she has stepped through the hole in the wall and is standing over him, foot on his chest, and applying just enough pressure to make his breathing a bit labored. She fixes him with a vicious smirk and her voice is like silk held _just so_ over a razor’s edge. “Hello, Matthew.”

His heart nearly stops at the greeting, throwing his torrential thoughts into even more chaos as he struggles to understand what is happening. He grimaces as she confirms his worst fears with two simple words and a very specific inflection. She is alive, again, and likely due to the influence of The Hand, ala Nobu. And, worse, she is aware of who is and has enough memory of their relationship to reference the way she greeted him the last time she had showed up in his life unexpectedly. That means she likely knows exactly what she is doing by attacking him, and for reasons he will not currently allow himself to name, that breaks his heart more than anything else she's ever said or done. He is so preoccupied with his thoughts that he doesn't notice her attempt to stab him with a sai until it is mere inches away from his chest. He rolls to his left on instinct at the last moment and hears the metal of the blade clang as it connects with the marble floor a half-second later. He jumps to his feet and brings his hands up to brace for her next assault.

Weapons drawn, she begins to circle him slowly. “Did you miss me?” There is a lilt in her tone, a taunt that sparks a raging anger in his chest where moments before there had only been hurt and betrayal.

He doesn't have time to respond, though, because she moves to strike again. But this time it is Elektra who is surprised by an attack from behind when Jessica, who has been watching their interaction unfold with a raised eyebrow, chooses this moment to kick Elektra squarely in the back, sending her to her knees in front of Matt. He seizes this moment as an opportunity to disarm Elektra, swiftly and painlessly. The rattle the weapons make as they slide across the floor, and out of her reach, makes her snarl.

In an attempt to keep the upper hand while he has it, he stands, bringing Elektra with him, and spins- pinning her against the wall to the left of the gaping hole where glass used to be. He uses his forearm to apply an _almost_ dangerous amount of pressure on her throat. Now that he has her at a bit of an advantage, he decides he needs answers. He is distantly aware of the fight that continues to rage on the other side of the wall, but his focus is entirely fixed on her.

“H-how are you alive? And why are you doing this?”

Elektra watches a flurry of conflicting emotions play across his face. She give a dangerous, purring laugh that sets his hair on end before he applies just a bit more pressure, cutting her laugh off with a sputtering cough. Once she stops, he lets up just enough so that she can talk.

“Don't be coy, Matthew. You know what I am. What I was always meant to be. The Chaste, especially that bastard Stick, taught me to temper my abilities and restrain myself. But the Hand brought me back as the truest version of myself. They encourage me to let myself go and embrace who I am. Who I have always truly been.”

His face falls, a pained expression contorting his expression. “So that's it? What about being good?”

Her scoff at that might as well be a snarl. “You know exactly what happened when I tried to be ‘good’. And if you aren't careful, you’ll end up the same way. But there is still time for you to change your mind. Join me, like you said you would the night I died, and we can be together. Just like you wanted.”

“You're not fighting on the right side anymore, Elektra. I really don't want to fight against you, but I can't side with you. I’m sorry, but I can't let you do this.”

“Mhhm, I had forgotten how cute you are when you try to be noble. Sadly, that won't be enough to save you. Though I must admit, I will miss that smart mouth of yours.” Suddenly she is reaching for the lapels of his suit jacket and pulling him to her, crushing their mouths together in a bruising kiss that he barely has time to process before she breaks the kiss and abruptly head-butts him.

His head snaps back at the impact, and he staggers, giving her the chance to slip out from under his grasp. He flails, trying to catch her, but he is unsuccessful. Instead, his hands connect with the smooth plaster of the wall in front of him. He leans into it while he attempts to regain his balance. When his head finally clears, Elektra and the rest of the Hand members who were still standing, have fled. He turns to lean back against the wall and tries to calm his breathing and his heart rate in the hopes that it will help the pounding in his head to relent. At the sound of footsteps approaching, he drops into a defensive stance and creeps back into the main hallway. He listens hard to decipher what or who is coming. He relaxes at the cadence of Luke's purposeful steps followed by the more erratic pace of Danny behind him.

“They’re gone. Like they vanished into thin air.” The incredulity in Luke's voice echoes off of the enclosed space of the hallway. Matt can appreciate the sentiment but is too overcome with his own internal crisis to offer any helpful response.

“That's not the worst part, though. They took the thing we came here for- the laptop!” Danny's voice is harsh with frustration.

“That's the least of our problems, believe me.” He feels Danny's flinch at his words and the sharp edge he puts on them, but he doesn't have the patience to care. He doesn't mean to snap, but the list of concerns they are dealing with has now been taken over by a ruthless, relentless, seemingly _immortal_ woman who trained for her entire life to be a living weapon. The fury that had begun to simmer under his skin during his fight with Elektra but that he didn't have the time to fully experience starts to pump through his veins with a vengeance as his mind starts reeling. This complicates things pretty damn significantly.

Suddenly, he notices Jessica's presence behind him- she must have returned from surveying the other end of the hallway- and he turns his head slightly in her direction as she decides to weigh in on their discussion. “Care to elaborate about that particularly cryptic portent? Because that chick in the red seemed pretty _familiar_ with you, and I'm not here to help you with a break-up fight.”

Matt finds himself reflexively flexing his hands into and out of fists at his sides to keep from punching the wall next to Jessica's head. He knows that noticing and digging into people’s sore spots is just what she _does,_ and it isn't necessarily personal, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant.

With a shake of his head and a harsh sigh, he deflates. He knows that she is right and they deserve to know what is going on, but this is not a conversation that he is very excited to have. He hates how sullen he sounds as he responds, but he can't modulate his voice to sound any lighter. He’s too exhausted and angry. “It’s a long story. Let's head back to base and I'll tell you everything I know.” Without waiting for any kind of acknowledgement from the others, he turns sharply and heads for the elevator. The other three share a look and a synchronized shrug before silently following behind him.

\---

By the time they finish at base after hearing Matt’s explanation of the Hand and their preoccupation with the Black Sky, and working on a new plan to account for the wrinkle that is Elektra, it's well past 2:00am. After grabbing a bite to eat at an all-night diner with Luke and Danny, it’s pushing 3:30am. Jessica knows that the night is as good as lost with how amped she is still feeling and how early she will have to be up to meet her client the next morning. Trish would laugh if she knew that Jess considered 8:30 _early_ , but she calls it “responsible” and a “sign of growth” that Jess is trying to get better about keeping “normal, adult hours” and using an alarm. Jessica just calls it a _pain in the ass,_ but she is still trying. Baby steps, or some shit like that. Regardless, she needs something to do for the next several hours, and she's hoping for something that, for once, isn’t drinking alone in her apartment (and wouldn’t Trish be doing backflips to hear her thinking _that_ thought). It hasn’t been an overnight process, but she’s been trying to get better about it. The drinking all night, alone thing, that is, not drinking in general. She knows enough to know that she needs to start small or she will likely end up drinking _more_ than before.

It’s her need for something to do that causes her to pull out her phone and look through her contacts. But it may have something to do with the tortured look on his face as he walked out the door to head home that she chooses Matt’s contact info in her text log.

 _-_  
To: Matt Murdock  
Sent 3:27 am  
Hey. Still up? _  
_ -

 _-_  
To: Matt Murdock  
Sent 3:28 am  
Come on, Murdock. I know you are.  
-  
  
-  
To: Matt Murdock  
Sent 3:29 am  
Shit, I would be if I were you. That’s a special kind of mindfuck.  
_-_

She starts to walk in the general vicinity of his apartment. She’s pretty sure he’ll answer her, but there is always the possibility that he will want to be alone. As she shoves her hands into her pockets to keep them warm, she feels her phone start to vibrate. She expects to finally see a text response from him, but she smirks when she sees that he is calling her instead. She can’t keep the smirk out of her voice as she answers. “I knew it. You _are_ still awake.”

“What do you want, Jessica?”

“Well, _hello_ to you too. I just figured you might want some company. You know, considering…”

“Yeah, well... aside from the fact that it’s 3:30 in the morning, I don’t think I’d be very good company right now.”

“And that’s exactly why you need some. Look, I’ve never been in exactly the same situation as this, because… well, _holy shit._ But I do know that it sucks to drink alone in the middle of the night.”

“Who said anything about drinking?”

“Please. Like you’re _so_ well-adjusted that you don’t use alcohol as a coping mechanism. Tell me- have they sainted you for that yet?”

“Hey. Jess. Come on.”

“Whatever. Sorry. So you don’t want me to come, then?”

“... I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Do you need anything? I can stop somewhere on my way.”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t need anything.”

“... But?”

“... ‘But’ what?”

“Seriously, Murdock? Do you want me to come or not?”

“Jess, come on. It's late and I… I don’t know. I mean... I guess, if you want, you can come.”

“Jesus, don’t sound so excited. Was that so hard?”

“Oh my god. Is this what you ‘helping’ sounds like? Because it’s really fucking late, and if it is, it’s not helping. Not at all.”

“Well, fuck you too. But I’ll try to behave, I promise. If you do still want me to come.”

“... yeah, I mean… s-sure. I’ll text you my address.”

“Don't bother.”

“What do y- where are you right now?!”

“I’m like three blocks away.”

“Are you serious?! What the fuck, Jess? How the hell do you even know where I live?”

“You're kidding, right? Did you forget what I do for a living? But, Jesus- don’t freak out. _Sorry_. If it bothers you that much, I’ll turn around and go home right now.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. It’s just… I- ugh. Whatever. It’s fine.”

“You sure? This is your last chance to say no.”

“... Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Let yourself in. And, uh… Jess?”

“Yeah?”

“... Thanks.”

“See you in five.”

She can’t help the smirk that curls her lips as she hangs up. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was almost happy at the thought of seeing her.

\---

When she walks into his apartment several minutes later, she is pleasantly surprised by the scene that she encounters. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Instead of a multitude of empty bottles or a sea of broken glass or furniture that was upended in a drunken rage, all that she sees that is out of the ordinary is a disturbingly bright and strangely colored light shining through the large windows that line the far wall of the apartment. She spots him sitting in a chair in the living room area with a half-empty whiskey bottle in hand. He is in profile from her position, backlit by the windows behind him, and the sight is striking. Borderline picturesque even, if it weren’t the result of such a shitty evening. She reminds herself of this before she can admire his silhouette- particularly his strong jaw or the slope of his neck- too much. And also because those thoughts don't belong anywhere in her head in relation to Matt… _right_?

She knows that he knows she's there, but he makes no move to acknowledge her, instead sitting completely still. Not quite calm, but static. Like he’s full of potential energy and rage, but is expending an extraordinary amount of willpower to keep it all locked away. It reminds her of a monk, actually. And maybe that isn’t so far off, from the little she’s heard him mention of his training. But then again, as she takes in the sight of him there, unmoving and stoic, she considers the fact that maybe he’s just exhausted- tired to the bone and beat down by the awful reality he now finds himself facing. Either way, it unsettles her to see him so still, so she breaks the silence as she steps out of the entryway and further into his apartment.

“Damn. Nice place. Guess it really does put mine to shame.” She walks slowly toward the couch across from his chair and sits directly across from him. As she settles, she turns to look out the windows to get a better look at the source of the light. She doesn't remember ever seeing a billboard quite so massive. Nor so close to a living space. With a click of her tongue in a mock dismissive way, she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Guess it isn’t exactly the best view, though.”

He finally acknowledges her with a soft hum. His voice is low, controlled and giving nothing nothing when he speaks. “That’s what they tell me. Can’t say I mind it, though.”

She huffs in response, and he takes this moment to take a drink of whiskey. She watches him carefully as he swallows, attempting to assess what all he may be thinking and feeling. He’s always been a bit more difficult to read that the others, though she has prided herself on still being able to figure him out. But tonight he’s downright inscrutable. She cocks her head and raises an eyebrow and this seems break his trance momentarily. He reaches out, offering her the whiskey bottle. She considers him for a moment, then takes it, downing a hefty swig before handing it back.

She leans forward on her elbows again and gives him a few moments to decide whether or not to speak. After he continues sitting silent and still, save for when he takes another drink, she finally breaks the silence. “I’ve been told that talking about the shitty things that happen in your life can help you get over them- sometimes. I’m not sure that I completely believe it, but that’s what I’ve heard.”

She finds herself unconsciously bouncing one of her feet and exhales a deep breath to calm her nerves. It feels out of character for her to talk about such things, but hadn’t he offered to do that for her before? It seems like a good thing to say, though internally she’s unconvinced of her preparedness should he take her up on it. It’s just so hard to know what to say or how to respond when someone tells you the truth about what has happened to them and how they feel about it. Just as her nerves are about to get the better of her again and cause her to retract her offer, he hands her the whiskey bottle once more. She accepts, breathing a sigh of relief that it will give her something to do for a few moments. With her occupied, he finally chooses to break the silence.

“Have you ever been happy, Jessica? Not just a time when you felt fine, or the absence of a negative emotion- whether sad, angry, whatever. But a time that you were honestly and truly happy. For however long.”

She has to work to not flinch at the question or choke on the whiskey she’s still trying to swallow. She knew that Matt had a broody side, knew he was an intelligent guy, but philosophy has never been her thing, and it sounds like he’s in the middle of serious existential crisis. With an internal grimace, she starts kicking herself for thinking that it was a good idea for her to come here. She’s not equipped for conversations like these. Hell, she can't even handle her own shit most days. A buzz starts at the base of her skull, causing her mind to start to become scattered and she feels her chest start to get tight as panic begins to creep in at the corners of her vision. She finishes swallowing her drink of whiskey and exhales a long, regulated breath as she tries to decide how to answer without having a full-blown panic attack on his couch.

She closes her eyes and squints hard as she tries to recall any possible time in her past when she might have been happy. But she finds that it’s a surprisingly difficult task. She’s nearly ready to lie, thinking that there had to be a time - maybe when she was young and her family was still alive- and that she can invent the details if he presses her for them. Finally though, a memory slots into place- her and Trish hanging out after work a few years ago when she had quit her job and won a bet with a guy who had been super creepy to Trish earlier in the evening. She had challenged him to a strength game and absolutely massacred his ego when she kicked his ass. His punishment was to apologize, in full view of the bar, and pay a large sum of money to Trish. She finds that her mouth starts to curl up into a small smile and her heart rate starts to return to a more normal register as the memory plays in the background of her mind.

But just as it finishes, it triggers another memory. A much more recent memory- the night she and Luke had ‘come out’ to one another and spent the night together. This memory, one she cherished for a short period of time, now leaves a bitter taste in her mouth when it is finished as it causes her mind to start racing with all of the other terrible memories that come after it. She starts talking in the hopes that it will shift her focus from the gaping black hole that she feels in her chest whenever she thinks of Luke.

“Uh, yeah. I guess. Maybe a few times.” Her tone is petulant, as though she is annoyed at having to experience the memories and emotions his question inspired in her. She hands the bottle back to him sharply, and he makes a small but amused hum at her before taking another sip. Then he speaks again.

“I can think of several... maybe five times in my life. Once with my dad, before my accident and before he died. And then the first day that Stick- the man from the Chaste that trained me- came to see me at the orphanage.”

She blinks at him because she’s pretty sure he hasn’t ever mentioned that particular part of his history before, but she can tell that he isn’t finished and that this isn’t the right time to bring it up. She makes a mental note to try to ask him about it later.

“Then there was the first time that I put on a mask and went out and tried to save someone. And there were a couple of moments with Karen, before everything … imploded.”

Again, the wheels in Jessica’s head are turning but she is restraining herself from asking for more specifics when he is referencing events or people that she doesn’t remember hearing much of an explanation about. She knows who Karen is- she works for The Bulletin and she used to be his secretary when he was in practice with his former law partner - but Jess doesn’t know much about her as a person or about the relationship Matt had with her. She’s been able to piece together the fact that Matt did something to royally fuck things up with her, something he clearly still regrets, but the details are spotty. But again, this is something that she will have to wait for clarification about.

He pauses, seeming to be completely in his head, not paying much, if any, attention to the world around him. Not for the first time, Jessica wonders what it is like to actually _see_ from his perspective. Regardless of what it’s like, though, she's pretty sure that she would not have the grace he does about it. But he derails that train of thought we he speaks again.

“And then, there was the time that I was with Elektra.” Her eyes narrow and she finds herself freezing to match the stillness that he has maintained throughout their entire exchange, almost on instinct to keep from spooking him out of what she knows is difficult territory. She waits for him to take another swig of whiskey and watches as he places the bottle on his knee, his fingers drumming along the mouth of the bottle, face carefully blank as he chooses his words with great intention.

“I was in my second year at Columbia, in the law program with Foggy. I met her at a faculty party, or more of a gala, that we snuck into. Apparently, her father was a donor and she went to lots of those kinds of events. I remember… she was wearing these bracelets that she was clinking _just so_ , and she was idly tracing the rim of her martini glass to produce a faint ringing. I picked her out from across the room right away. She was distracting and … totally alluring. I thought it was just a coincidence, but…”

He leaves the thought unfinished, shaking his head slightly and taking a drink. Jessica allows herself to settle further back into the couch as he appears to be gearing up for a bit of a story. She's more than happy to sit and listen if he's willing to do the talking… if only he was sharing that whiskey a little more frequently.

“For the next few months, we were practically inseparable. But the day I'll always remember, the best day I ever spent with her, was a few weeks in. I had taken her to the gym where my dad used to box. I spent lot of time there as a kid, and I fed her some line about how I had continued to go after all these years, just to appreciate the place and the memories I had there- to feel close to him. In reality, I had worked out an agreement with the janitor and had taken to going there after they closed in the evenings, to train and keep myself sharp.”

She raises an eyebrow, perpetually mystified by him and all of the new information that she is learning about him tonight. And it doesn't help that the thought of him training is suddenly stuck in her mind. She'd never admit that her eyes occasionally wander to him when they are fighting in close proximity, or that his prowess in spite of his normal human amount of strength gets her just a little hot under the collar. As the thoughts occur to her, they inspire confusion and incredulity in their wake. Her desire for some whiskey gets even stronger, and she's fighting the urge to fidget in place of taking a drink. He doesn't seem to notice her non-verbals, though, and continues uninterrupted.

“I remember... I told her about my dad, and she stepped into the ring. She was playing around, leaning against the ropes and then she invited in. I didn't think anything of it, just pretended to feel my way over, and I bent to step between the ropes. And then, before I realized what she was doing, she was throwing a kick at my head, and of course I _ducked_ _._ But as soon as I did, I was thinking, _shit,_ because I'd just given myself away. My heart was pounding as I rose up out of a crouch, my mind was racing about how I would have to try to get out of it. But then she was looking at me, I could feel her doing it, and it was like she finally saw me- the real me- for the first time. And it all hit me right in the chest. Because I hadn’t felt that way in years. Because no one, other than Stick, knew. I mean, from the time that I was nine years old until that moment, _no one_ knew who I really was or what I could really do. No one but Elektra.”

Jessica gets a sinking feeling of apprehension in her stomach. It's the feeling she gets when a client is oblivious and can't see the oncoming shitty ending that Jessica can see, even if she doesn't know exactly  _how_ things will turn shitty, just that they will. It's the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Except this time it's happening in reverse; she already knows the shitty ending- she saw a resurrected, bloodthirsty version of Elektra earlier, and she's seeing Matt suffer in real time on the couch in front of her. But knowing what she knows while hearing him recount his emotions from the beginning of his relationship with Elektra ,and watching him re-experience the hope and excitement that occurred before the shitty part cuts her to the core. And now she _really_ wants another drink of whiskey.

“She started taunting me, playfully, and we went back and forth a few rounds. She showed me that there was more to her than met the eye too, and she challenged me to let myself go and stop pretending. And I couldn’t believe it. She seemed so delighted and accepting of what I was showing her. So, I did. I let down my guard and let her in, like I'd done with no one else before … or since.”

The sinking feeling in Jessica's stomach is intensifying with every word. She can’t keep the frown on her face from transforming into a full-fledged scowl. She's just waiting for the worst part to come...

“That's when I knew that I loved her. And I can honestly say, that moment, there in that boxing ring with Elektra... that's the happiest I can ever remember being. In all of my life.”

… And the other shoe drops. Jessica had expected that he cared for Elektra, but with this context, now she can understand just how strong his feelings must have been and why. She can't imagine how awful he must be feeling right now, knowing that he has to face a corrupted version of his resurrected lover in their battle to save the city.

She stares at her shoes for a moment or two while trying to decide what to say. Matt just takes another drink and continues to sit in the silence.

“Damn, Matt. I'm sorry. It must… fucking suck having to see her again. Especially like this.”

He raises the corners of his mouth in the approximation of a smile, but it has no mirth or lightness. “That's not even the worst of it, though. Not really.”

She narrows her eyes at him as she wonders how it could _possibly_ get any worse. Finally acknowledging her discomfort, Matt hands her the bottle of whiskey, then leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. She takes the bottle but sets it on her knee, patiently waiting to take a drink until she's heard the worst of it.

“I loved her, but at the same time I also loved the idea of her and who I thought I could be with her. I think she was guilty of that too. Because it turns out that things weren't quite as I thought they were.”

Her detective instincts flare at this statement. She feels her inquisitive nature come out as she attempts to push him for a less cryptic answer.

She fixes him with an intent look. “Meaning…”

He continues to hesitate, then lifts a hand to motion for her to return the whiskey bottle. She takes a quick sip first, then hands it back. He appears to be deep in thought as he takes another drink himself. Jessica fights a small smirk at the face of concentration he makes, noticing the creases in his forehead and between his eyebrows. It's a cute expression on his otherwise stoic and elegant face. The longer she looks, the more it becomes clear to her that she cannot deny that he truly is handsome. Striking, even. She's not sure how to handle such a realization. But then, he unknowingly saves her from herself by breaking her reverie as he finally speaks again.

“Well, it wasn't just fate that she was at that party that night back in college; she was sent there- on a mission from Stick. Turns out he had trained her too. But I didn't know that she knew him, let alone that she worked for him and had been instructed by him to seduce me. Hell, for years I never suspected a thing. I only found out last year- by accident, no less- when Stick made an offhanded comment about knowing her that didn't add up. I don't think she ever would have told me otherwise. When I confronted her, she said it didn't change how she felt about me, that she had really fallen in love with me along the way. I wanted to believe her, I really did. But that was the thing with Elektra; honesty, consistency, and morality were all really difficult concepts for her to adhere to. Not that she didn't try. But in the end, well … it did her more harm than good.”

He hesitates as though he isn't sure he wants to continue that train of thought. But with everything else that he's shared, she doesn't know why they'd stop now. In for a penny, in for a pound. She goads him into continuing, but uses as light and bland a tone as she can without feeling like it's mocking. “That sounds ominous.”

He sighs heavily, as though resigned to telling her the rest of the story despite the fact that he knows the ending is a real downer, as if it could be anything else.

“Maybe. But it's the truth. The night she died she was trying to be ‘good’. For me. Because I know she did, in some way, love me. And because we both wanted to believe that she wasn't the Black Sky. Part of why I wanted to believe that she was good so badly was because I was terrified of what it said about me and my desire to be with her if she couldn't. But she was the only one who knew the truth about me, and I was so tired of hiding. I was so desperate for a happy ending that I made a completely fantastical promise to her about how we could be together as vigilantes, leaving the world we knew behind for good. And for a moment, I really believed it could work…”

If his gaze was distant before, now it's light-years away.

“Honestly, it should have been me, not her. She was several feet away, fighting her own battle, and the blade was aimed at my chest. But all of a sudden, she stepped right in front of me and…”

She really can't blame him for failing to finish that thought, especially now. A sudden burning in her chest informs her that she has been holding her breath in anticipation of how the story ended. She takes a few breaths to steady herself and reflect on the explanation Matt gave to the whole group earlier. It makes even more sense now, as does the tightly controlled fury that has been radiating off of him since he noticed her in that hallway. Jessica's brow furrows as she sees a single tear slide down his cheek and pool on his t-shirt. Her eyes are fixed on the tiny dark spot left behind as her chest restricts with the pain she feels for him. When he speaks a beat later, she's amazed at how little his voice wavers and how still he manages to keep his expression neutral for how tormented he must be.

“They say funerals are for the living, not for the dead. And that's true. I thought that after it was finished, after I had that closure, that I would be done hurting because of her. I mean, I knew I'd still have my memories- that it might still hurt to think of her- but I really thought I was done with all of the revelations, that there wouldn't be any new surprises or things I would learn later that would hurt me any more than I had already been hurt. But it turns out I was wrong. And honestly? This one hurts the most of all.”

He takes a drink and closes his eyes, as though he’s dancing of the precipice of succumbing to the overwhelming emotions that are simmering just under the surface with all of these memories. Jessica sits stock still and completely silent, totally unsure of how to respond. She has to intentionally work to keep from gaping or showing an outward sign of her reaction. He can already hear her internal reactions, though hopefully he’s too preoccupied to be concerned with her vitals right now. The pared down sounds of the city in the dead of night trickle into the apartment in place of conversation, but they are muted- almost as though they know not to come between them or break the reverent silence that has fallen. She hopes he is listening closer to that than to her.

After a few beats have passed, it seems like it’s more than time for her to say something. Knowing that she is way out of her depth, she chooses to be as honest and true to herself as she can. She thinks he knows better than to expect much more from her.

Jessica blows out a long exhale. “Shit. And I thought my relationship with Luke was fucked up.”

He chuckles in spite of himself but doesn't move otherwise.

“...Jesus, Matt. That’s… I mean… _fuck_.” He opens his eyes and turns his head in her direction, as though finally addressing her directly for the first time all evening. He offers her the (nearly empty) whiskey bottle.

“Sorry. I did warn you, though. Not the best company right now.” She hears the faintest touch of lightness in his tone. It's not quite what she would call joking or easy, but it's a marked improvement from how they started. She'll decides she'll take that.

She smirks and reaches out to take his offering, and as she does, her hand makes contact with his. Her eyes instantly flick up to search his face, to check if there is any evidence in his expression that he, too, feels the spark passing between them. But she is wholly unprepared for what she sees.

Where before he had worn a carefully controlled mask of calm that was closed off from any of the thoughts or emotions roiling inside his head, now she sees him looking at her with an expression that is disarming in its openness. There is such raw vulnerability in his face, and it reveals the depth of his pain and loneliness while also conveying how grateful he is for her in this moment. The image steals her breath and causes her heart to start thundering in her chest. As she looks into his face, she understands what he has done by sharing this information with her, and it terrifies her while cementing in her mind a truth that she is unprepared to consciously acknowledge. While her mind reels, spinning off its axis with alarming speed, he lifts his gaze to the general vicinity of hers.

“Jess… thank you for coming here tonight. I can't tell you how much it means to me.” His voice is soft, timid in way that she does not associate with him, and it only serves to further upset her balance. She feels her conscious mind begin to slip away from her body as her brain short circuits from all the emotional input and switches to autopilot.

She breaks from their emotional moment with the singular intention of escaping the vulnerability that _she_ now feels. She absently glances down and sees the bottle in her hand and brings it to her lips with jarring speed. Without stopping for thought or breath, she begins to drink down the remaining contents. When the bottle is empty, she wipes her mouth with the back of her mouth roughly. Her mind clicks into gear, trying to calculate a way that she can leave. _Now_.

“It's whatever. I only came for the booze, anyway.”  A distant part of her mind- the part which is watching, _infuriated,_  at the way that she is sabotaging yet another new relationship out of fear just as it started to become supportive and healthy- grimaces at the painfully disinterested and brittle tone to her voice, particularly in contrast to the soft and welcoming way he spoke to her moments before. She knows that her behavior is shameful, so she intentionally avoids looking at him as she hurriedly puts the bottle down on the coffee table between them and moves to stand.

It's probably for the best that she's facing away since the look that clouds his face at her response is heart-wrenchingly pained. But as he closes his eyes in a wince, he catches himself and seems to remember who he is talking to and what potential reactions he knew she might have to being so emotionally present with another person. He could kick himself for pushing her because he really thought, at least for a moment, that she was feeling what he was feeling. As she stands, he stands too. He puts out a hand to reach for her, but when his arm is halfway through the arc of its movement toward her, his brain registers that touching her, especially right now, would be a terrible idea. Instead, he halts his movement and holds his hand out to her, in a gesture of placation, while trying to get her attention with his voice.

“Look, I'm sorry if that was too heavy. I am thankful for how supportive you've been tonight, though I never meant to make you uncomfortable. But you don't have to go. Whatever is going on with you right now, I can handle it. I promise that I can. You just have to tell me what it is first.”

She has made it to the hallway leading to his door already, trying to tune him out by focusing on the pounding of her heart in her chest. But she finds that the rational part of her brain that is trying to help her heal is listening. And as she processes the last few sentences, she stops dead in her tracks. Anger blooms in her stomach, raging wildly at his words. She rounds on him in an instant, stalking back toward the couch to shout him down, voice sharp and bitter.

“Oh, you can handle it, can you? Supportive, caring, _stable_ St. Matthew can handle the smart-ass, fucked-up P.I. with a trauma history?! Well, good for you. But that's not the fucking problem here. The problem is that _I_ can't handle it. _I_ can't handle you and your shit and your emotions and your crazy, murderous, zombie ex-girlfriend when I can barely even handle my own shit. I don't know how to make you feel better, and I really don't know how to tell you how to help me. So, let's save the therapy talk for a support group and call it a fucking night. Thanks for the whiskey.”

She turns sharply on her heel, stomping off toward the door and not waiting for his response, but that annoying little rational part of her brain makes sure she hears it anyway.

“Jess, you already made me feel better. Just by showing up. _You_ came to _me_ , and that's all I needed. That's what I'm trying to offer to you. You don't owe me anything. I just want to try to help you, too, because … I care about you. Because I know about shame and fear and isolation and how they work together to make you push away the people that are trying to help you. And I know how unbearably lonely it all is. I know that you're mad, and you're allowed that. You don't have to stop being mad. But you don't have to be lonely. Not if you don't want to be.”

She pauses suddenly at the edge of the hallway, as though struck by his words. She leans a hand on the wall to her left and closes her eyes, trying to shut out all of the chaotic thoughts and emotions which are bombarding her mind as he speaks to her. She takes a deep breath in and starts to use her old coping strategy of naming the streets in her neighborhood under her breath. When she has calmed her breathing and her mind enough to stave off a potential panic attack, she turns to lean back against the wall and forces herself to consider what he was saying to her. The logical part of her brain, which was aghast at her behavior moments before, is slowly becoming louder and more clear. It encourages her to focus on the fact that he _cares_ about her, he _accepts_ her, and is offering to help, if she could just shut up and let him. With a long suffering sigh, she puts her hands in her pockets and pretends to take great interest in the floor beneath her feet.

“... I, uh- I don't know how to do this.” Her voice is rough, but quiet, as if she can barely get the words out. If not for his super hearing, he may not have heard her at all. But he does, and for that she’s grateful.

He gives her a small, sad smile and takes a slow few steps toward her. “I know. That's okay. My track record isn't that much better than yours, honestly.”

She bites her lip to hide a twitch at the corner of her mouth that wants to turn into a smirk. Her hands slide out of her pockets and her fingers find the stitching of her jacket seams, fidgeting there to keep her from combusting with anxious, uncomfortable energy.

“So what now?” She's still studying the floor, but her voice is a little stronger than before.

He breathes an internal sigh of relief to hear her resistance lessening. He takes a few more tentative steps and comes to stand a couple feet away from her. “I don't know. It's up to you. Whatever you want, including drinking. But fair warning- as of a few minutes ago, I'm out of whiskey. I've only got beer left.”

She chances a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, and her brows draw together as she assesses him. “What, no jab about ‘healthier’ coping mechanisms?”

“You're still here, aren't you? Let's take on one questionable habit at a time.”

“Whatever you say, _St. Matthew_.”

He shakes his head at her, his voice exasperated. “Okay, no. In all seriousness, that has to stop.”

She rolls her eyes, but huffs a quiet laugh under her breath. With a deep exhale, she pushes off from the wall and turns to face him more directly. “What if I stay for the time it takes me to have one beer?”

“That sounds great. I'll be right back.”

She crosses the length of his apartment leisurely, going to stand in front of his windows. She quirks a brow as she looks out to see the sky beginning to lighten the slightest bit, signaling the approach of dawn in a few hours. A quick look at her phone confirms that is is nearing 5:00. She's surprised to see that more than an hour has gone by already. It seems as though she's somehow spent both more and less time here than that. But her internal sensors are still a little overwhelmed from earlier, so maybe that makes sense.

On his way over to her, Matt speaks from several feet away, careful not to sneak up on her. She still feels herself jump just a little at the sound of his voice breaking her concentration, but it's less pronounced than it could have been. More baby steps, she supposes. Good fucking god, she’s growing a lot lately.

“I hope you like German beer, because it's all that I have.”

“I don't really care as long as it's alcohol.”

“Fair enough.” He pauses for a moment, unsure if he should voice his next thought. But in the interest of trying to help her out, he decides he will. Just to see what happens and try to work through any reservations that might still be lingering in her head.

“Elektra never did like it. Always gave me shit for not drinking something American.”

A beat passes and she stares out the window. “I am sorry about her. I really can’t imagine.”

“Yeah… it's pretty fucking awful.”

“Do you think you'll be able to fight her, or… worse, if it comes to that?”

“Honestly? I don't know. I'd like to be able to say yes, that I'd be able to carry on with our mission in spite of that, but…” His brows are furrowed, deep in thought, likely playing out the possible scenarios in which he would have to encounter Elektra again. Jessica can almost see the wheels turning.

“A little part of me can't shake the thought that maybe she's not beyond saving. That the real Elektra is in there somewhere, trying to get out. I don't know. Maybe that's just wishful thinking.”

“Maybe. But… still understandable. But if there isn't any chance of that? What then?”

He turns his head as though he's staring out the window, but she realizes that he's likely just listening to the sounds of the city as it rouses from sleep- maybe trying to find a measure of normalcy in an otherwise bizarre last twenty-four hours. When he speaks again, his voice is hesitant, like he's convincing himself as much as her.

“I’ve never killed anyone as Daredevil. Did you know that? It's one of the only rules I've given myself. Part of it is the Catholic in me, but part of it is the lawyer, too. Even if I sometimes need to use a little extra force to subdue or catch a criminal before bringing them to justice, I've still always believed that they needed to be tried and punished for their crimes. That only a jury, and ultimately God, could judge them and punish them. But with everything that's happened in the last year… I don't know if I believe that anymore, or I don't know if I can afford to. Not if we’re going to stop the Hand for good, and I really don't know how to feel about that. But if it were Elektra… I _really_ don't think I could do it.”

For a long moment she stares blankly out the window, frowning at a thought that is becoming louder in her head with every second that passes. She tries to talk herself out of speaking it, but in the end, she can't keep from offering. “Well, maybe... I could. _If_ it comes to that. And if you want me to. Maybe it would help a little to have someone who knows and respects what she meant to you to be the one to do it.”

He smiles a small, sad smile. “Thanks, Jess. I guess we'll see what happens.”

She stares hard at him for a moment, brow raised in incredulity. With a small shake of her head, she turns to look out the window at the brightening sky. “Shit. I don't know how you can do that- have an even halfway optimistic outlook on things.”

He takes a sip from his beer, buying him some time to think about how to respond. How to tell her what he so desperately wants to tell her without scaring her off in the process. Finally, he sighs shrugs in her direction. “It's not always easy. Some days it's almost impossibly hard. But it has been a little easier lately.”

She fixes him with a skeptical frown. “Why?”

It takes some effort, but he keeps his expression and his voice as neutral and open as possible. “Well, because I don't feel like I'm taking it all on by myself anymore. In my experience loneliness makes everything so much worse. That's why I want you to know that I’m happy to return the favor. And hopefully with a little time, you’ll believe me.”

Even though he can’t technically meet her gaze, she still turns abruptly to look at the billboard outside to keep from having to feel his attention on her. “Maybe.” She takes a large pull from her beer and huffs as she realizes just how much they've talked tonight. “God, I feel like I should be paying you for all this therapy.”

He huffs at her and she thinks that is his equivalent of rolling his eyes. “Just seeing you less miserable is payment enough. You know, you don't have to stay miserable forever, Jessica.”

She practically snorts at him in response. “That's rich coming from you. Isn't that your whole shtick as a Catholic vigilante? Suffering? A martyr for the greater good?”

The anguished frown that spreads across his face tells her instantly that she chose exactly the wrong thing to say. “No, that's not...” he bites the rest of the thought off as he pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyes. The sigh he lets out as he speaks is labored, weary. She feels it acutely, like he’s pulling on heartstrings she thought to be long lost. She chews her lip in apprehension of the emotional connection that is forming between them. She finds herself fighting not to hang on his words as he speaks again.

“That's not why I chose to do this.”

She chooses a much softer tone when she pushes him for his answer; she’s still interested in his motivation but doesn't want to hurt him any more than she already has. “Then why? I can't imagine doing the ‘hero’ gig for as long as you have. I couldn't stand it for more than a month.” The last sentence comes out without her rational brain’s blessing. Must be the alcohol starting to loosen her tongue.

His head bobs violently as he does a double take at her comment. “Wh- what did you just say? You've tried the ‘hero’ thing before? Really? _Wow_. I don't know if I can believe that.” He takes a swig from his beer, his nonchalant and skeptical tone belying his interest in the story of her heroics.

She rolls her eyes at him and feigns offense at his disbelief. “Fuck you. I did give it a try. Once.”

“Forgive me if I'm having trouble picturing you that way. It just seems a bit… out of character for you. Did you have a suit and everything? Or a name? What did you even do?”

She huffs in exasperation and takes a drink to help her stall for time. She's painted herself into a corner and isn't sure how she'll get out. Other than by telling him the truth. _Ugh._  With a heavy sigh, she begrudgingly gives in just enough to satisfy his curiously. “Look, there was no suit and I didn’t have a name. I tried to blend in, so I wore a … sandwich costume. Like the kind they make people wear outside of a Blimpie’s.”

He has turned to lean against the edge of the window, arms crossed, as if he's the picture of nonchalance having the most entertaining conversation in the history of man. “I would pay to be able to have seen that.”

The glare she shoots his way is withering. He must feel the weight of it, because he makes a small gesture of concession with his hands, encouraging her to continue. And when she does, she couldn't sound much more put out if she tried. “I just… stood on street corners waiting to help people in trouble. But it was very short lived. Because people are fucking ungrateful assholes, even when you try to save their lives.”

He can't necessarily argue with her- some people don't take to his support as well others- but he does little more than raise an eyebrow at her. She looks down at her bottle and fidgets with it, pulling apart the label as she remembers one particular night that really made her feel like her efforts had been worth it. “But there was this one little girl that I kept from getting hit by a car when she ran into the street. That was… I was pretty proud of that.” A tiny smile curls on the right side of her lips at the memory.

His own lips curl up in reflection of her smile. “So you must know why I do what I do to, then. It's about helping people like that girl. Not anything else.”

She gives an exaggerated sigh and rolls her eyes at him, taking another drink. “Fine. I might have some idea. But martyr or not, maybe you should take some of your own advice. About suffering.” She closes the distance between them and gives him a pointed look while poking him in the arm to emphasize her point.

He merely chuckles at her. “Maybe so.”

With a lingering look at him out of the corner of her eye, she crosses back to the window and gives a self-satisfied smirk. But her smirk turns in to frown as she downs the remainder of her beer, watching the pastel pinks and oranges start to color the sky. It's probably time for her to head home. Her heart seems to throb at the idea, not wanting to end this moment or break the connection that has grown so strong between them over the course of the evening. She's terrified that if she walks out of this room, the spell will be lifted and she won't be able to let him this close to her again. She stands silently for a few moments, her feet feeling leaden even as she knows she can't stand here forever.

She forces herself to pull out her phone and check the time. It's 5:33 am. She sighs as she does the mental math of how long it will take her to do all she needs to do this morning. It will be at least 6:15 before she's home, and then she's got a little more than two hours to shower, drink some coffee, and get everything ready before the thirty minute commute she'll have to make to meet her client. She really does need to go, but she can’t help the disappointed sigh that she lets out as she acknowledges this.

“Well, I guess I should head out. I've got a client this morning, and I'm sure you need time to get ready for another day at the office.”

He shrugs, voice conspiratorial as though devising a heinous plan. “Oh, I don't know. I might have to take a personal day. Due to ‘extenuating circumstances’.”

With a glint in her eye, she clicks her tongue at him. “Hey, I know your boss, and he's kind of a hard-ass. So do what you want, but it's your funeral.”

He lets out a bright, full-bodied laugh and smiles at her. And for a minute, the light coming from his face outshines the rising sun behind him. She feels her heart jolt at the sight, like an unseen force of intense magnetic charge is pulling her to him. She closes her eyes to block it out and thanks her lucky stars that she is leaving before she can be pulled any further into his orbit. Because, oh boy... ( _Houston, we have a_ **_problem_ ** _…)_ But a problem that part of her really doesn’t want to fix.

She walks to the coffee table and sets the empty bottle down. “Thanks. For, uh… you know. Everything. Whatever.”

He walks over to her, settling against the arm of the chair facing the coffee table. “Sure. But Jess- thank _you_. Truly. It means a lot that you came here tonight. I really appreciate it.” He's got that look on his face again- the open, vulnerable one- and though it still makes her uncomfortable, it's a little less so than before. So maybe that's something. Another fucking baby-step. She wishes she felt better about that, instead of just remembering how far she still has to go and how many more baby steps she'll need to take.

“Well, don't assume this means that I can always handle your shit. I don't think I can take more than one un-dead assassin ex-girlfriend.” The sarcasm flows easily, the sensation of it familiar and comforting on her tongue in spite of the vulnerability that sits like shards of glass in her stomach.

And God bless Matthew Murdock for understanding exactly when to stop pushing and play along. “Lucky for you, I don't foresee that being a problem.”

“Better not be. So, I guess I’ll see you tonight. Team meeting at the office, remember? Think you’ll be up for that?” She's stalling at this point; she's pretty damn sure he remembers, but she doesn't want to leave yet. She covers her intention by pulling on her gloves.

He pretends to consider the offer, scrunching up his face as though weighing his choices. But after a moment, he breaks and huffs a laugh under his breath. “Yeah, I'll be there.”

She nods once at him in confirmation. “Get some rest.” Without waiting for his response, she begins her journey to the door.

“Thanks, Jess. See you later.” She turns to look at him one last time as she reaches the entry way and can't help but smile at him before tearing her eyes away and making bee-line for the door. As she heads out of his apartment and onto the sidewalk, the symbolism of the morning light breaking in the sky seems like a representation of…whatever is it that's happening with her and Matt. And as much as she wishes it were, it is not lost on her.

For a moment she starts to worry that it may actually be a bad omen, one that tricks her into hoping and believing while everything is about to turn disastrous. But with a few more minutes of deliberation, she decides that maybe she is being too negative. Perhaps a little divine intervention is owed to her after the clusterfuck that was Kilgrave, and perhaps Matt Murdock is meant to be her savior. While she's not sure whether or not she believes in fate, there is a certain happiness and relief that she gets from the thought that he is in her life for a reason. So with a promise to revisit the logistics and specifics later, she allows herself to briefly ponder how _happy_ and _normal_ Matt can make her feel, with seemingly little effort. Maybe it does make sense to have someone like Matt in her life who is capable of understanding how she's damaged because he is damaged in his own way. She supposes it's only a matter of time until she gets herself into trouble with these thoughts, but she allows herself to entertain them for the rest of the walk home. And as she reaches her apartment as brilliant light is streaking across the sky, she allows herself one moment to think about how happy she might be able to be with Matt. And then, she locks the thoughts away and steps inside, intent on not thinking about that again until absolutely necessary. Or at least, not until later.


	5. Chapter 5: A.K.A. Heavy is the Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another special thanks to stuckypocketguide for a second, marvelous illustration! FYI: it's not quite NSFW, but it depicts an intimate scene from this chapter. I'll embed it at the bottom of the chapter, just in case.

The relief Matt feels when they don’t encounter Elektra on their next escapade into the Hand’s territory is immense, but he still can't shake the churning anxiety in the pity of his stomach that he eventually _will_ whenever he turns a corner. To say that he is tense by the time the assault is finished is an understatement, so he's genuinely glad that Jessica seems to notice his high-strung state and seek him out as everyone is heading their separate ways for the night.

She lingers on the sidewalk outside of the warehouse they had been investigating and waits for him to catch up. He notices her presence in his senses right away- the steady rhythm of her heartbeat and her unique perfume of whiskey, leather, and a touch of coconut from her shampoo- and it gives him a feeling of instant calm and security that he believes could be nothing short of addictive if he manages to keep spending time with her like this. For a moment his mind tries to run away with those thoughts… until she speaks and redirects him.

“Hey. So … how ‘ya holding up?” Her voice is the closest to caring and warm that he can ever remember hearing it. The sound is unexpected, but no less welcome, and comforting- the way a warm mug of tea is for fingers that have been out in the cold. He wants to commit the sound to memory for days when his soul is feeling similarly cold, but he's afraid that he has already been thinking too long, leaving too much silence between them to not seem suspicious.

His own voice is thin and hollow in comparison when he answers her. “Uh, okay, I guess. Considering...”

She raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him, a faint smirk on her face. “Have you trademarked that yet? Because you certainly say it enough.”

He sighs heavily and shakes his head in his equivalent of an eye-roll. “Jess, while I appreciate your sense of humor, I’m not quite myself right now, so I may not be able to hold up my end of our usual, witty repartee.”

“Well, I think I know what might help you get there.” She slides her hands in her pockets with a smirk and a shrug. He imagines the glint in her eye that likely accompanies the action.

“Does it have anything to do with getting slobbering drunk? Because I think that sounds like a plan that I can totally get behind.” He surprises himself with how honest that comes out sounding when he had _meant_ for more of a teasing tone.

She pauses and appraises him carefully, likely noticing his slip. There's a hint of challenge in her voice and her posture as she squares off to him. “Not gonna take the high road and try to 'talk it out' tonight? Well, thank god for that. I am a much bigger fan of your idea. Besides, I’ve got a lot more experience with drinking copious amounts of liquor than talking through my problems.”

“Okay, good. Whiskey it is.”

She nods and takes off down the block, in the general direction of his apartment, with a purposeful step. He stays put and cocks his head inquisitively. “Where are you headed?” He has to raise his voice so that she will hear him over the din of the street beside them.

She stops and sighs exasperatedly. Reluctantly, she turns and raises her own voice to match his. “Come on. Don’t tell me that you thought you would try to invite yourself over to my place. Because I’ll tell you right now, that’s not going to work.”

He huffs at her, laughing and shaking his head as he walks a few paces closer to her. “So you thought you’d invite yourself over to my place instead?”

She scoffs at him and crosses her arms. He listens to leather creak with her movements and smiles. It has become a familiar kind of white noise for him when he is in her presence. Her voice is playful when she answers him. “As if you don’t have the markedly better apartment out of the two of us?”

He sucks on his teeth and considers her point. “Fine. But I’m starving. Maybe we can pick up some dinner on the way. How do you feel about Thai? There’s a great place on the way to my building.”

She hums and grins slyly. “If you’re buying, then I’ll eat just about anything.”

He gives a genuine chuckle at that, a smile breaking through his previously solemn face. “Damn, Jones. You drive a hard bargain. But I’m too tired to argue. Let’s go.”

He can hear her smiling through the snark she laces into her tone. “Whatever you say, _Counselor_.”

\---

On their way across town, their first stop is at the liquor store so that they can buy more of the aforementioned whiskey, since they finished a bottle last night. Then they set off for food. As they reach the Thai place, Matt realizes that he can't remember how long it's been since he ate something. With chagrin, he acknowledges that this is likely contributing to his generally unpleasant mood, and he knows it will only get worse if he continues to put off eating. Something about the sound of relief Jessica makes as they walk into the restaurant leads him to infer that she's having much the same realization in her own head. He smiles to himself at the thought. They really are a pair. And the more he learns about her, the more he finds himself thinking of her as his near perfect equal- a puzzle piece with notches and tabs in the complementing and correlating spaces of his own. It's a comforting thought, and when they pick up their order and set off toward his apartment, there is a bit more spring in his step.

But his eagerness doesn't last long. With each step he takes, he starts to worry more and more that Jessica wouldn't agree with him about how well they fit together. Like a single domino falling and triggering a complex series of demolitions of carefully constructed tiers and patterns, his single doubt sets off a chain of anxiety, fear, and disappointment that destroys his imagined connection and gives him a splitting headache with astonishing speed. And isn't that just what he needs on top of everything else that he's worrying about?

He does his best to maintain his typical poker face while his inner world is deteriorating. Dinner helps to ease the pounding in his head at his temples, but it does nothing to quiet the buzz of static filling his thoughts as he sits at the dining table across from her, wondering and worrying about everything from eventually running into Elektra again, to never being able to show Jessica just how much he is rapidly coming to care for her. Jessica notices that his anxiety is rising, and he breathes a sigh of relief as she returns from the kitchen, bottle of Jack Daniels in hand.

“Care for some dessert?”

He sets his glasses on the table and rubs his eyes before nodding. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

She flops down onto the couch after handing him the bottle, arms and legs spread out, and he moves from the dining table to stand at the window. From the corner of her eye, she watches him drink generously. Eventually the silence settling between them starts to grate at her. “What are you doing?”

He could almost swear that she's anxious. The beat of her heart is just a few ticks quicker than normal. And there’s slight edge, almost a brittleness to her tone, as though afraid to hear the response he might give. He cocks his head unconsciously as he listens harder and pays more attention to all of the data her body is giving off. His thoughts begin to run away without him, running contingencies and trying to analyze what she might have to be anxious about. Maybe it's just his optimism from earlier creeping back in and making him hope for impossible things, but he can't shake the thought that maybe she is not quite so opposed to the idea of them being … whatever they might be able to be as he initially thought. He is fascinated by the possibility.

He's tempted, for a moment, to tell her the truth, but a panicked voice in the back of his head tells him ( _begs_ him) not to. Instead he considers a way to deflect, because there is a different voice rising above the din in his head and pushing him to take the chance and tell her anyway _._  He decides to ride the middle line for the time being.

“Just thinking. And … listening. Or reading. However you’d like to think of it.” He purposefully keeps his attention trained out the window, feigning disinterest in her.

“Reading what?” She asks it in a way that is just cagey enough to make him think she’s completely on to him and is merely giving him enough rope with which to hang himself in the way he answers. But part of him does want her to push- the part that is now practically _screaming_ for him to tell her the truth- so he uses a voice that is laced with the tiniest bit of guilt, hoping she’ll take the bait.

“The city … mostly.”

She huffs at him, but he hears some amount of mirth in the sound, enough to convince him that she isn’t angry. And that’s progress for her, he knows it is. He covers a chuckle with a drink from the whiskey bottle.

She takes advantage of this moment to prod him a little more, voice pointed. “Right. Well, do you ever take a break from that?”

He appreciates her deviation from what he expected would be some amount of reprimand. But just as she appears to be asking it honestly and taking his previous statement at face value, he finds that he can’t keep from answering her question with honesty to match- in large part because it’s a question that he has spent a good deal of time thinking about. And some part of him thinks (hopes… wants to believe) she might understand. His expression turns contemplative, bordering on broody. “I can't afford to take too many. When I do, people get hurt.”

She sits still and silent for a moment, looking long and hard at him from her place on the couch. He listens to her pulse, beating steady and sure, and finds himself timing his breaths along with hers- a grounding exercise that has never felt more calming. The realization of this unconscious act on his part causes him to wonder if she has any clue of just how important she has become to him, how completely she has become his anchor in the short time they have been friends. The way she stands and crosses casually to meet him at the window, reaching for the whiskey he still holds with the faintest joke in her tone, tells him she doesn’t. And he has to fight against the sudden and overwhelming urge to take her hand in his and tell her. To thank her. To praise her. To show her how much he cares. But instead, he stands stands still and simply listens to her speak.

“I hate to break it to you, St. Matthew, but people will still get hurt, even if you are running around, parkouring all over the city.” There’s no venom in her tone; it’s something between disappointment and sympathy instead, but he frowns at her still. She gives a slight shrug, and shakes her head in response. “That's the thing about humanity- we all suck and we don't deserve saving.” She raises the bottle to her lips and takes a hefty swig.

He has to work not to bristle at the remark, and takes a pause to regulate his breathing. With a furrowed brow, he listens intently to her pulse for a moment, attempting to determine her true thoughts on the matter. He’s less than thrilled to note that she doesn’t appear to be lying. He steps closer to her and fixes his gaze in an approximation of hers.

“Do you truly believe that?” His voice comes out softer, more vulnerable than he expected it to.

It seems to disarm her a little because he hears her pulse jump as a light blush begins to form on her cheeks. “...  well sometimes, yeah. I do. Don't you?” She turns, facing out the window to avoid his scrutiny. An unsettling stillness falls between them for a moment and her heart rate continues to speed.

He turns to face the window with her, his shoulder just barely brushing hers. The words are slow to come at first, words he's guarded and held secret for worry she wouldn't understand or would judge them as petty. But with each word he tells her, the more it feels like the freedom he has long dreamed of in opening himself up to her.

“I'll admit that sometimes... it feels futile, because I'll never be able to save everyone everywhere. Sometimes it's unbelievably hard because I feel like I'm sacrificing everything to try to reach an impossible goal. And sometimes, yes, I want to quit. But … then I think of the people that I _have_ saved and all of the ones that I still can help in the future. And I can't give up on them, even if I can't save everyone. So I focus on that, and I look for the people who might be able to help me try to save the world- the ones who make me feel less like I'm banging my head against a wall all by myself.”

She turns back to face him slowly, almost dumbstruck. It sounds like she can't decide between incredulous and amazed when finally speaks to him, barely above a whisper. “God, you baffle me sometimes.” She takes the bottle from him and takes a drink, staring him down all the while.

He cocks his head at her, a puzzled frown drawing his eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”

She leans back against the brick wall to the left of the window, her hands making a flailing gesture, as if they could somehow help her find words to express her thoughts. “I just … I can't fathom it. How you can think that there's still good in this world. How you can still try to believe in and trust other people, especially in light of the things you've gone through. I don't understand how you're still standing. How you haven't given up entirely.”

He stands still for a moment- thinking, listening, but mostly praying. For thanks that she has not run from him yet. For guidance about how to tell her what's in his heart. For the possibility that he is not drastically mistaken about them being able to help each other with their demons. With a feeling that is surprisingly similar to the rush of adrenaline and fear that he feels for a millisecond after he vaults off a rooftop before grappling to another, he takes a regulated, even breath, and tells her the truth.

“I don't know. I just… keep going. Every day it’s a choice that I make. Sometimes it feels impossible, but it's all I've got. So I do. But I have found that It really helps to have people who support you. I don't know what I'd do, what I would have done a few months ago, if it weren't for you. I mean, the world is still horrible in a lot of ways, but you help me to feel less like I'm the most fucked up and damaged person out there. And you’ve given me hope that, maybe, we could help each other to be … less fucked up.”

She purses her lips and squints at him for long moment. He waits for her to speak, feeling her gaze and listening to her heart. It may have stuttered for a moment at his words, but it quickly levels to a steady pace, leaving him to wonder at what she could possibly be thinking.

“Maybe…” Her tone is non-committal, but it turns lighter as a slight smirk curls one side of her mouth. “But for the record, I'm way more fucked up than you.”

He can't help the surprised smile and huff of laughter he has in response. She takes another drink, and afterward he holds out his hand, silently asking her to pass the bottle back. He raises it to his lips, then takes his own drink, a smirk forming on his face as he swallows.

“Oh, I'm not so sure about that. You think you can top being a kid who went blind at nine due to a chemical accident and was then sent to an orphanage when his father was shot by a mobster for refusing to throw a boxing fight?” He crosses his arms and leans against the wall to the right of the window, the mirror image of her current pose.

She finds herself unconsciously crossing her arms in rhythm with him. “So? I lost my entire family- mom, dad, and brother- in an accident when I was twelve.”

“Well, I didn't have any other family and had to go live in an orphanage until Stick came to get me, turned me into a child ninja, and then disappeared without any explanation for almost two decades.”

“That's nothing. I also didn't have any other family and was adopted as a publicity stunt by Trish’s mom- a narcissistic, abusive, bitch of a woman.”

He hums, considering, then shrugs. “I fell in love with a woman who patched me up and kept me from dying after a particularly bad fight. As a result of the almost dying, a fair portion of my life imploded and I almost quit being a hero altogether. But then the woman encouraged me to continue, then subsequently dumped me because she couldn't handle me being a vigilante, despite the fact that I was doing what she encouraged me to do."

Her posture straightens in what he assumes is recognition, and she cocks her head at him. “... Claire?”

He another hefty drink. “Yeah.”

She scoffs at him and steps close enough to take back the whiskey bottle. “Ouch. But see, I was kept prisoner by a sociopathic rapist who mind-controlled me and forced me to do a ton of terrible shit against my will, including killing an innocent woman because she knew the truth about him.” She takes a swig and he has to keep from gaping at her words. He'd expected that whatever had happened in her past hadn’t been good, but he'd never figured it to be quite so _bad_.

He whistles low. “Yikes. I’m sorry that happened." He reaches out to take bottle back and drinks again. "But you should know that I took on Wilson Fisk and his empire, basically by myself. And in my attempt to take down a member of the Hand who was working with him, I almost bled out on my living room floor after I brought fight sticks to a knife fight.”

 

“That's nothing. _I_ investigated the husband of the woman I killed and ended up falling in love with him and sleeping with him, though at the time, he didn't know who I was or what I'd done.”

He grimaces at her. “That is pretty bad. But let's not forget that my law practice fell apart, I lost my best friend, and I ruined a budding relationship with a wonderfully kind woman because my manipulative ex-girlfriend, who seduced me years earlier as a ploy by my stand-in father figure/trainer, rolled back into town and got me involved with fighting the Hand.”

“Please. My rapist came back to haunt me after I had been free of him for almost a year, and he killed dozens of innocent people to get to me along the way.” She sticks her hand out, palm up, and pokes him in the chest in order to convey her request to take a turn with the whiskey. He obliges her and continues with a sigh.

“I held the first woman I ever loved as she bled out from a wound that should have been inflicted on me. And because she was resurrected by a crazy ninja cult, now I'm probably gonna have to watch her die- again- to save the city. I may even have to kill her myself this time.” He turns away from her at that, leaning against his forearm where it comes to rest on the edge of the window pane. She finishes her drink and hands the bottle back to him. He takes it and drinks eagerly, without even looking at her. She pauses for a beat, then sighs and turns to face out the window too. He hears her heart start racing as she shares one last surprise.

“Well… the man whose wife I killed is… Luke. And he almost died when I shot him under his jaw with a shotgun because I was trying to escape from him, due to the that he was trying to kill me. And he was told to do so by my jealous, deluded, mind-controlling rapist.”

He turns to her, cocking his head and furrowing his brows. “Damn. I … I don’t think I can top that. Touché.” He hands the bottle to her, and she accepts it with a reluctant and half-hearted smirk. He crosses his arms and leans casually back against the wall, shaking his head. “I guess we make quite a pair, don't we?”

A chuckle escapes under her breath. “Yeah. And I’ll admit- I'm pretty impressed. You're pretty fucked up. But I definitely win.” She makes a toasting gesture as she says it, then guzzles a hefty swig.

His smirk folds into a straight line as he fights a full-fledged frown. Matthew Murdock is no stranger to using humor and self-deprecation as a means to cope with the unfortunate facts of his life, but his familiarity with the tactic allows him intimate understanding of the pain and suffering lurking beneath. The voice in his head comes back, _pleading_ with him to offer his hand to her and stop waiting for her to come to him, lest he grow old in the process. With a deep and carefully regulated breath, he fakes another half-smile to play off of the humor she’s offering as long as he can. “I suppose I’ll cede the crown to you. But you know what they say about that…”

“... What?” The flat, exasperated tone she uses makes him wish he could see the face that accompanies it. He's sure it's nothing sort of a work of art.

“You know. The quote... ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown’. Surely you’ve heard it. It’s Shakespeare- Henry IV, specifically.”

“In what may come as a massive shock to you, that’s not ringing any bells.” Her tone is actually flatter and more exasperated this time, and he can just about feel the roll of her eyes for the vivacity with which he can imagine it. He has to choke back a chuckle so as to not lose the opportunity to transition from sarcasm to more serious waters.

“Regardless, the sentiment remains. That's … more than a lot, Jess. And I feel like I know you at least well enough to guess that you probably don’t do a lot of talking about any of it. And it makes me wonder how you’re doing, how you’re _really_ doing. So how are you? Are you okay?”

With a sigh of something close to disgust, she turns back to the window and takes another drink before placing her a hand on her hip. “If you really think you know me, then you should know I don't fucking know how to answer that question, Matt.” There’s an edge to her voice. It's not quite the venom that she is capable of, but a warning of what may come if he pushes her further. But he’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

In a gesture of surrender, he raises his hands and looks down. He blows out a long sigh, and after a beat, he raises his head back up to approximate her gaze. “Fair enough. I'm sorry. Let me try this one- do you want to tell me about any of the dozens of things that are likely bothering you?”

The scoff she lets out at his offer sounds a bit like a snarl. She takes another generous drink of whiskey, glaring out the window while she does. He listens as her heart races- first with anxiety, then with anger- and waits for it to calm before moving or saying anything more. As she settles down, she crosses to the chair across from the coffee table and sits heavily. She taps her foot a few times, balancing the bottle of whiskey precariously on her knee. Her tone is distant, hesitant when she finally breaks the silence.

“God, I - I don't know what to say. I mean … things have been a little better this last year, since Kilgrave died. But the rest of my life is still pretty much in ruins. And this whole group thing we've got going is … hard. Because being around Luke is still really fucking hard.”

His heart throbs and his chest constricts with the empathy he feels for her. With a sad sigh, he slowly crosses toward her, a concerned frown on his face. He comes to sit on the arm of the other chair, to her right, facing her though she remains in profile to him. “I can imagine that it is. Has anything specific happened between you two?”

She exhales roughly and shakes her head at that, her hair rustling against the leather of her jacket. “No. He hasn't done anything. And that's the whole goddamn problem! He’s never once brought any of it up, never stared at me with hate in his eyes, never threatened me or told me to stay out of his way. He's just … calm and kind, if not a little distant. But he never says or does anything to make me feel bad or uncomfortable. It's like he somehow doesn't hate me with every cell in his body. Like he's forgiven me for doing the unimaginable, lying to him about it, and taking advantage of his kindness. But every moment that he doesn't blame me, or swear at me, or hate me… it all makes me hate myself that much more.”

Her words hurt in much the same way that bumping a yet-to-be healed bruise hurts. It's a familiar sensation that hides under the surface until something unintentionally touches too close to the area. He shakes his head again at how effortlessly he understands her, at the way that so much of his inner life is mirrored by hers. He lets the silence linger between them for a moment, allowing her time to drink again. She exhales as if she is about to speak, but she stops at the last moment.

He gives her a moment to try again. When she doesn't, he uses a gentle tone to push her into speaking again. “Well, have you talked to him since we started all started working together?”

She lifts her free hand and allows it drop, heavily, on the arm of the couch as she answers him with a pointed tone. “And say what? I’d really almost rather have to face Kilgrave again. At the very least, I’d rather cut off my own hand.”

With a frown and a sigh, he rubs rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know talking about… basically anything isn't easy for you, but what is the worst that could happen? He'd hate you more? Because you said you expect him to do that, hell, you want him to. So I wonder if what really worries you is the possibility that he would forgive you. But for the life of me, I can’t understand why you’d fear that. So, why? Do you think you don’t deserve his mercy?”

He flinches at the clink that echoes in the apartment a millisecond later as she slams the bottle down on the floor and shoots up out of her chair. With a dark, humorless laugh, she stalks toward the window, but she doesn’t get far; instead, she takes a few steps and then turns sharply on her heel, rounding on him and practically snarling. “How could I? In case it wasn't clear, let me spell it out for you- I'm not exactly a good person. Good people deserve things like forgiveness and grace and mercy, but that's not me.”

With concern furrowing his brows, he listens as her heart pounds in her chest. He can sense anger radiating from her like heat from the sun, and he feels his own anxiety flare as a result. He has been pushing her hard tonight, and he knows she's nearly at her limit. But he's so dangerously close to getting through to her and offering her the perspective that she desperately needs in order to unburden herself of the self-hatred that is so clearly weighing her down.

Matt stands and takes several careful steps in her direction. She's so consumed with her thoughts, pacing a small and restless loop in front of the window, that she doesn't seem to notice his approach. When she passes him on her next lap, he places a tentative hand on her shoulder and gently encourages her to stop and turn to face him. Reluctantly, she raises her head to do so.

The tone he uses is soft and comforting- not all that unlike the tone one might use to keep from spooking a wounded animal. He allows a passing thought in the back of his head to admit the similarities between the two situations.

“But that's the whole purpose of mercy, Jess. It's something offered to you in spite of the fact that you don't deserve it. Because everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Everyone? You really believe that?” Her tone is carefully neutral, controlled so as to give nothing away. But even her restraint tells him something. He thinks she is considering the possibility that she deserves more than she has allowed herself to believe, and he wants to sing praises from the rooftops at the thought, but he can't celebrate too soon. He works to match his voice to hers as he tries to assuage her fears and self-doubts.

“I have to. Because I'm not necessarily a good person either. But I'm trying to do better, to be better. You deserve that same chance.”

Jessica stands still and silent, nearly frozen, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he could see her face. He wonders if she is frowning, and if so, what that looks like on her face. Is there a crease in the furrow of her brow? Is her mouth a tight-lipped, straight line, or does it curve down with dimples? A distant voice in the back of his head questions why he has taken such sudden interest in her mouth. Just as he is about to consider what that might mean, she chooses to speak again.

“But you don- ugh! You don't know all that I've done. I wasn't … goddammit! I wasn't going to tell him. I wasn’t going to tell Luke about his wife, okay? The only reason I did was because he found the man he thought was responsible and was going to hurt him. I'm really not a good person, Matt. So how can you know what I deserve?” She struggles to get the words out, voice wavering with self-loathing. She sounds so anguished and ashamed, and he can tell she's barely holding back tears when he catches the scent of salt stinging the air.

He fights off an intense urge to take her into his arms and offer her the comfort she so desperately needs. But rather than frighten her or overwhelm her by reaching out, he angles his gaze down toward hers and flexes his hands to keep them busy. He speaks in an open, soft tone, praying she'll believe him.

“Because I know we’ve all done things we aren't proud of- things we don't deserve forgiveness for. But that's no reason to give up on ever being happy and resign yourself to suffer for the rest of your life. That just means you have to try harder the next time and try to learn from your mistakes.”

She’s the quietest he’s ever heard her be when she speaks. It’s not quite a whisper, but it’s close. “It can't be that easy.” She shakes her head, clearing the tears, and exhales a shaky breath. “And besides- what if I ruin everything again, anyway? Even with the second chance? What if I hurt someone else?”

As the words leave her tongue, he’s aware of something- a sudden tension, building and sparking between them in ways that he had hoped for yet never believed would materialize. He feels her gaze, heavy and charged, as he listens to her heart ramp up. His own pulse begins to quicken, racing to match hers as he takes a moment to marvel at the fact that she's so close to finally letting him in. He takes a breath to steady himself and control his voice as he takes one last chance at trying to show her how much he cares for her.

“Jess, it's never easy. And getting hurt is a something of an occupational hazard.” He thinks he hears her stifle a chuckle at that and takes it as a good sign. He lifts his gaze, aiming for where he guesses her face is, and gives a low, rough whisper. “But it's a chance I'm willing to take… if you are...”

He listens to her body as she hears the words- as her heart rate continues to accelerate and she wars with herself about whether or not to give in. And he listens as the boards beneath her feet creak ever so faintly as she starts to shift her weight. And then she’s practically surging toward him, pulling him into a kiss with fervor that is exhilarating. With a pleased hum, he meets her momentum and pulls her closer, arm snaking around her waist. The sensation of her in his arms, yielding to him like soft butter in the wake of a knife, is thrilling. He trails a hand up her throat, feeling her pulse, then moves to thread his fingers through her hair, mesmerized by the softness. But suddenly she’s pulling away. He hears her heart beating faster as she turns her head to face away from him, as though looking for something behind her. With a laugh, he guesses what she’s looking for and has to work to keep the smirk off of his face at the sudden turn that the night has taken.

Taking advantage of her position, he nuzzles her neck, breathing in the intoxicating scent of her, before placing his lips against her ear just so and whispering, “Bedroom’s directly behind you.” He chuckles internally as he hears her hiss from the sensation, then kisses the expanse of her neck directly beneath her ear, right over her pulse point. She shudders and pulls him in for another kiss, meeting his tongue with hers. The hand he had wrapped around her waist sneaks under her jacket and he brushes his fingers to the soft skin of her back under the hem of her shirt. He fights off a moan when she nips at his bottom lip in response. Then she’s pulling out of his embrace and heading backwards, and he follows immediately, as though in a trance.

“Read my mind. Sure that’s not one of your skills?” The breathy, sultry tone of her voice draws him in like a beacon.

He can’t help but match her tone as he answers her. “Not reading your _mind_ , no.”

She huffs as she halts at the doorway to his room, pulling of her scarf, and he feels her gaze on him, challenging him. “Does that mean you’re reading my body, Murdock? Without my permission? Tsk-tsk.”

He tries (though not very hard) to contain the smirk that draws up the corner of his mouth. “You caught me. Though I believe I said that I try not to read people for personal gain, with an emphasis on _try_. But you are quite difficult to ignore.” He leans a hand against the doorframe, waiting for her to yield again. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Aren't you a fucking charmer. Well? What are you picking up on?” She moves a step closer, and starts to remove her jacket. He straightens, inhaling and cocking his head- making a show of concentrating hard as he reads her.

“Your heart rate is up. Adrenaline too. But it’s not from fear this time. Not really. Your temperature is rising. And there's a flush on your cheeks.” He steps closer as he says it, voice low and soft, and raises a hand to gently caress her face.

“Meaning…” She draws the word out, leaning into his hand as she drops the jacket and lets it fall to the floor behind her. The _clack_ of the zipper on the hardwood floor vibrates up his body like an electric charge. Just as he goes to reach for her, she backs a step away and bends to toe off her boots. Matt catches the scent of her on the air between them as she moves and feels his own pulse begin ratcheting up.

She's _utterly_ tantalizing and is consuming his senses, but he retains enough self-control to remember his part of the game they are playing. He concludes his assessments using a voice he hopes will continue to make her heart race. “You're excited. A little anxious. And … at least a little aroused.”

She kicks one boot to the side and slowly rises to stand straight again. Her tone is dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, maybe just a _little_.” He hears her arms cross in front of her chest, hands grasping the hem of her shirt.

He laughs softly and steps closer, hand coming to rest on her arm, silently asking her to pause. “May I?”

She considers him for a moment, then agrees. “Fine. But don't keep me waiting too long.” Her tone is confident and strong with just a tiny bit of command. He feels a flare of heat low in his abdomen as he hears it. And how _interesting_ is that... though his attention is brought again to the task at hand as she clears her throat at him.

He is happy to do as she asks and steps closer, hands brushing under the hem of her shirt and against her bare stomach. She inhales deeply and turns around in his loose grip, looking down as she uses her free foot to remove her other shoe. In the meantime, he nuzzles her head, burying his nose in her hair and breathes deep the smell of her and her shampoo. The complex notes and subtleties to it are more feminine that he might have guessed she'd pick, but then again she's _full_ of surprises tonight. He places his hands on her shoulders and runs them lightly down her arms, until he reaches her elbows, which he pulls up and away from her body. Then he reaches down for the hem of her shirt and starts lifting it off of her frame. She raises her arms the rest of the way to help him complete his task. When he has pulled the fabric away, tossing it on the floor, he gathers her wrists in his hands and holds them up above her head for a moment. She inhales deeply, almost trembling in his hold and the sound is like a splash of gasoline on the open flame of his desire. He slowly drags his hands down the line of her arms, from wrist to shoulder, feeling the swell of the corded muscles beneath her soft skin. When his hands have passed her shoulder blades, he slides them around toward the front of her chest to gently graze the side of her breasts. Her breath catches at that, and he smiles.

With an impatient huff, she brings her hands to meet his and guides them to her back to unhook her bra. He lets the garment fall to the floor, his hands occupied and spread wide as he moves them forward in tandem to trace both sides of her rib cage. Her left hand reaches behind her, snaking her fingers through his hair- an anchor against the onslaught of his touch. In response, he moves his hands up to gently cup her breasts, toying with her nipples, and she lets out a low sigh. He chuckles faintly into her hair, but she still hears him. She spins in his hold, facing him as she runs her hands over his chest, tracing the outlines of his abs through the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Something funny?” Her voice is edging on dangerous, just enough to promise a punishment that he’s not sure he wouldn’t enjoy if he isn’t careful with his response. He briefly considers disobeying just to taunt her, but decides to be honest instead.

“I don't think I've ever known you to be so relaxed. It's just a little ironic, in the true sense of the word. As in unexpected. But I enjoy the contradiction.”

She huffs a laugh at him, and suddenly, her nimble fingers are under his shirt and leaving trails of fire along the skin of his abdomen. He correctly interprets her desire to have the garment removed, and he pulls it over his head. As soon as he does, she resumes tracing lines and patterns over his stomach. The lightness of her touch sets his blood aflame.

“Well, I find it _ironic_ that you're so fucking cut and you can't even see yourself. Which is a shame. In fact, it's almost tragic, because you're like a goddamn Greek statue. Well ... aside from these gnarly scars. You weren't kidding about losing that knife fight. But you know, it's kind of working for me.”

He barely maintains a straight face when she says the words because it sounds like an exaggeration of the highest degree. For a moment, he worries that she’s mocking him and that he has misinterpreted a large chunk of the last twenty minutes, but he tries not to let that uncertainty show in his voice when he answers her. “And that's good, I'm assuming?”

She pauses her movements and scoffs at him. “Fuck you. You’re fucking gorgeous, and you know it. I mean, you have to. How could you not? God, what is it with you and compliments? Don't tell me you're self-conscious, Matthew Murdock.”

He’s instantly chagrined at the accusation in her tone, but as he thinks about what she’s saying… he finds he can’t disagree with her assessment. Maybe he is self-conscious. It takes a moment and a deep breath for him to work up the courage to explain his sudden hesitation to her, half-dressed as he is.

“I’ll admit that it's hard to make comparisons when you don't really _see_ the competition. So that's helpful, usually. But by the same token, sometimes not knowing is worse, and I don’t always feel the self-confidence that I project. I'm never sure how I’ll be received in the moment. 'Gnarly scars', notwithstanding.”

She is silent for a moment, though her hands have resumed their soft tracing of his abs. He hears her hum softly and then feels her hands settle at the waistband of his pants. He hisses at the way she traces a line on his skin there, right over edge of the fabric. “That’s fair, I guess. Well, for what it's worth, you're almost disgustingly attractive. Scars and all. I’ve always thought so. But tell anyone I said it, and I'll make you regret it.”

She leans in and whispers the last words into his ear and he shudders at the idea. Somehow he thinks that he wouldn’t actually regret that decision, but his mind loses the capacity for rational thought as he feels her unbutton and unzip his pants. He inhales shakily as she starts to pull the fabric down. It’s a pretty clear sign of her interest in him and gives a sufficient boost to his confidence, so he reaches for the buckle of her jeans in turn. As his pants fall to the floor, she steps back, inching toward the bed and he carefully steps free. He hears the tell-tale sound of rustling fabric as she shimmies her jeans down her hips, and when they hit the floor, he moves toward her and takes her face in his hands. He kisses her, and it’s more forceful this time, all tongue and teeth. With a sigh, she pauses the kiss and she steps out of the pool of denim at her feet before kicking it out of the way. He listens to the sound of the button sliding across the hardwood as she wraps a hand around his back and pulls him toward her, kissing him with renewed fervor. He follows suit and gently moves them further back until they reach the edge of his bed.

His hands slide down her back, tracing the gentle curve of her spine, then the swell of her ass as he tries to lift her leg up on his as he moves to ease her onto the bed. With a huff against his lips, she abruptly grabs his wrists with just enough of her strength to overpower him. Then she spins them so that he is the one against the bed. He gives a ragged exhale as he tests her grip and finds that he can’t break it.

“Worried, Murdock? You might be able to kick my ass in hand-to-hand with your training, but when it comes to brute force, I've got you beat.” The thrill that her words sends through him is electrifying. He knows the words shouldn’t entice him, but they do. He feels his desire flame hotter at the idea of her ability to overpower him, and the choice she has to make about using it. He gives a half-smile at the fact that his truest desire for her- that she would learn to trust him and let him in- is now turned on its head as she is asking him to trust her in return. If that isn’t poetic, he’s not sure what would be. But the choice is an easy one for him to make.

Their faces are already close together, but he closes the remaining distance between them, gently placing his forehead to hers. “I’m not worried. I trust you.” He leans in to kiss her and he hears her soft gasp before she crashes her lips to hip, kissing him desperately. He matches her intensity until she pulls away to chuckle conspiratorially at him, dropping his wrists, and placing her hands on his solid chest.

“Buckle up, then.”

He barely has time to quirk a brow before she's pushing him backward with enough force to simulate flying for a few seconds until he lands back on the bed. He catches enough air that his stomach flips at the reminder of how much stronger than him she really is. The throb of heat in his abdomen filters down between his legs where he is hard, tenting his boxers. He hears the bed springs whine as she kneels on the bed and crawls up his legs until she's straddling him. Her proximity is driving him absolutely mad, and he feels a singular need to be consumed by her. His hands glide up her thighs until he gets to her waist. He grips her then, rocking his hips up slowly while he pulls her down to meet him and they both groan at the contact. Even through the fabric of their underwear the sensation is delicious, but he knows it will feel even better when there is no barrier between them.

Chuckling, she scoots down his legs a bit and helps him out his boxers while she slides her underwear down her legs. The scent of her arousal, heady and earthy and stronger than ever, overwhelms him. She slides back up his body and he scoots back on the bed to lean against the wall as she straddles him again. Then his hands are immediately on her, starting at the soles of her feet and moving up her legs with speed. But this time when he gets to her waist, he slides one hand around her back while the other traces a line up from her bellybutton to her clavicle. There his hand splays to feel the contours of the bones under her skin, feeling the beating of her heart and the rising of her chest, before sliding up the column of her neck. He kisses a line down her breastbone as he wraps his fingers around her neck, pressure firm but still gentle, and feels the rush of her blood in the artery beneath his fingers, the vibrations of her vocal chords as she gasps in his grip. She stills in his hands, and he slows his movements, gently tracing one hand along the lines of her face while the other gently traces down the side of her neck, to stop at the left side of her chest, right above her hammering heart. She groans and grips him at the wrists again, this time holding them against the wall above his head. He tests the hold on impulse, though he knows he won’t overpower her, and can’t suppress a shiver at the reminder.

“You're sure taking your sweet time.” She forces a put-upon tone and wiggles her hips, just a few inches above where he really wants her. He hisses and clenches his eyes shut. With a smirk and a shake of his head, he laughs his response to her. “Just admiring the view.”

He can only imagine the look that she gives him at that (and once again, he really wishes he didn’t have to just imagine it).

But the sarcasm and skepticism in her voice are almost as good. “Oh really? And what, exactly, do you _see_?”

He sits for a moment, really taking her in, inch by inch, and he smiles softly. “Well, I'm not sure that my criteria would be considered… typical, but I can still tell that you're stunning.”

She cocks her head at this, sending her hair rustling, and he revels in the sound- thousands of tiny strands rubbing together and creating a specific kind of symphony. She releases her grip on him and traces a path down his chest with light fingers. “And how would you know?”

He chooses this moment to roll her over, not quite pinning her down, but caging himself around her with his whole body. His right hand is braced on the side of her face, and he shifts his weight so that he can move it to trace along the contours of her face.

“It's all subjective, anyway. Maybe I don't have an opinion on blondes versus brunettes or other visual aesthetics, but I know what I, personally, find attractive.”

She looks into his face, taking the brunt of his attentions and staring him down. “Which would be…”

With a soft smile, he leans down to kiss her, then trails his hand down her neck to play along her collarbone. “Well, it's hard to explain but … you're a mess of complexities and contradictions, and something about that is beautiful to me. First there's your voice.” His hand slides back up her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses up the column of her throat in it’s wake, and speaks into the skin of her neck at he continues.

“It's not the softest or most melodious I've heard, but it's strong and rich and it's alluring in its own way. And not to mention that sharp tongue. You’ve always had a marvelous sense of humor.” She squirms in his arms as he kisses her neck again, threading a hand into her hair.

“Next, there’s your soft skin and hair, and the scent that is so distinctly you- leather, and whiskey, and a hint of coconut. I’d know you anywhere from that alone, and I can pick you out from a block away.” Something about that makes her pulse jump, and he kisses her pulse point in response before moving his free hand down her shoulder to her bicep. He grasps the muscle solidly and she flexes into his hand instinctively, but he doesn’t apply any real pressure. She relaxes in his hold, and he leans in, kissing her softly.

“And then there's your _gifts_. You’re capable of such strength, and all of it is hiding under your seemingly slight frame. But you know how to hold your own, and I’ve seen you use that for good. Because you are good, at your core. You're such a surprise. So much more than you seem. You're absolutely lovely, Jessica Jones.”

He hears her shaky inhale and her heart starts racing again. He feels her shifting her momentum, as though she’s about to flip them, but he halts her before she can, pushing her shoulder down gently. He isn’t quite done adoring her yet.

“You don't have to rush. You can lead if you want to, but I'd like to try something for you first. If you're up for it.” He scoots down the bed a bit to hint at his intention.

She hesitates, almost long enough that he thinks she’ll decline, but he has brought his hands to draw patterns on her waist and dance along her hip bones, and she gasps in a way that sounds a lot like conceding. But still he waits for her to say the words, listening to her heart hammering away with each brush of his fingers.

She lets out a shaky sigh before agreeing under her breath. “Knock yourself out.”

He huffs a laugh into the skin right below her bellybutton and he listens as she sucks in a ragged and sharp intake of breath. His careful fingers trace frustratingly light paths down her thighs until he reaches her knees. With a gentle but firm pressure, he parts them and places a kiss on the inside of each thigh.

She bites her tongue nearly hard enough to taste blood to stifle the moan that she wants to let out at the delicious rasp of his stubble to the soft skin of her inner thighs. She tries to hold back a moan when he leaves a trail of open mouthed kisses up to the crease of her hip joint, but he hears the strangled sound in her throat and he pauses. A moment later, he hears the bed springs creak as she leans on her elbows to look at him.

He takes this opportunity to check in with her and assess if she really wants him to continue. “Doing okay?” His voice is soft, but intense, as though he can’t keep his own desire from bleeding through.

She gives him a playful scoff and tries for what he assumes is a snarky tone but it ends up sounding impatient from all of the want that he hears in it. “I'll be better when you put that mouth to work.”

He chuckles lowly and smirks to himself. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispers into the skin of her thigh. The vigor and enthusiasm with which he sets to his task is considerable. From the reactions that she is giving him- from her racing pulse to her uneven breathing, and her tensing muscles to her sighs and sounds of pleasure- he is pretty damn sure she appreciates his efforts.

Following her body’s clues, he hones in on a specific area that seems to light her up, and when she moans in delight, he can’t help but give his own moan in response. As he does, he feels her entire body tense and arch as she cries out. “Fuck, Matt! Yes!” Pleased with her reaction, he continues his assault on her with renewed ardor until she is straining and taut, balanced on the precipice and waiting to fly over. But then things take a turn for the worse.

While only moments before Matt had been occupied with the scent and taste of her, the sound of her panting breaths and pounding heart, his concentration is suddenly broken by the sound of fabric rending. Jessica curses loudly and he stills, pulling back enough to try to assess what just happened. He quickly notices pieces of fabric in her hands, then realizes that she must have torn through his sheets. A distant, oddly primal voice from the very back of his brain is pleased with this news and wants to feel proud of it, but he silences that voice as he notices how tense she has become.

He uses the most reassuring voice he can muster and hopes that he can get her back on track before they lose this moment. He couldn’t care less about the sheets, his attention is still completely rapt on her. “It's fine. Don't worry about it.” He places one of his hands on hers to still it, then starts another trail of kisses down her abdomen, trying to get her back in the moment.

She fights it, though, and he feels her fighting it- recoiling from his touch instead of yielding to it or meeting it like she had been before. He hears her heart racing, but he can tell that the cause is from anxiety. He moves back up the bed a bit and cocks his head to assess what’s happening for her.

“Jess, what's wrong?”

She pulls her legs up, out from under him, and rolls to the left of the bed, toward the edge. “Don't you get it? That's the universe’s way of telling me that this was a terrible idea. I never should have kissed you, let alone anything else. Hell, I shouldn't have even come here tonight.” Her voice has risen at least one register, working on two, and she’s sounding more and more frantic the more she speaks. She swings her legs over the edge and stands before bending to pick up something from the floor. Moments later he registers the sound of two rhythmic steps in quick succession followed by the light rasp of clothing being drawn across skin, and it all hits him like a gut punch.

He can’t help but shake his head at the sudden confusion that overtakes his thoughts. “Whoa. Wait, what? I think I'm missing something here. That or else you have seriously overestimated my attachment to my bedding. If it's the latter, let me assure you that I don't care about the sheets.” He pulls what’s left of the top sheet over his lap as he turns to try to reason with her.

Instead, he hears her walk a few steps, then reach down for another piece of clothing. She huffs derisively. “It's not about that.” He listens as the sound of denim stretching tells him she is stepping back into her jeans.

He’s pretty sure he’s scowling, but he can’t quite keep himself from doing so as he attempts to catch her attention. “Then what is it about?”

The sound she lets out is somewhere between a sigh and scoff, and it communicates multitudes of exasperation. “I just …  I don't think I can do this.”

As he hears the words, he deflates. He brings a hand up to rub at his eyes as though he might be able to rub away what is clearly a bad dream which had only moments before been wonderful. But the sound of her pulling up the zipper on her jeans seems to echo much louder than it truly is in the sudden silence between them, and it rings with a finality that makes him realize that this is not a dream or nightmare of any kind. It is his suddenly disappointing reality. He tries to take a deep, grounding breath as he feels anxiety begin crawling up his spine.

“Oh… Well, is it something I did? Or something I said? Because whatever it is, I'm sorry. And if you tell me what is bothering you, we can work it ou--” He has to work to keep the desperation he feels from creeping into his voice. One of them has to try to remain calm in this situation.

But his plan backfires, because the calm that he tries to convey just seems to make her more frustrated and frantic. “No, Matt. It wasn't you, okay? God. I just shouldn't be doing this with you… to you.” She practically stomps over to retrieve the next piece of clothing, and she pauses to put it on.

He furrows his brow because he can’t understanding what she’s getting at. But not wanting to make her more upset, he waits a moment and tries for a flat, neutral tone before asking her to clarify her statement. “Jess, what are you talking about?”

She whirls around to face him, voice sharp. “Goddammit, you know what I'm talking about. Don't make me say it out loud.” She slips the straps of her bra up then bends to pick up another garment off the floor. By the way that the air around her moves as she does, he’d say she does so with more force that is necessary. He waits as she pulls her t-shirt back on.

He takes a stab at what he assumes she is worried about. “Say what? That you're afraid of hurting me? Or that this will all go sideways and will hurt us both?” He stands and scans the floor at the end of the bed, searching for his boxers. Once he has located them, he moves to pick them up and put them on.

Meanwhile, Jessica is looking for something else, and picks up his pants as part of her search, checking to see what might be hiding underneath. She balls them up and throws them at him, seemingly in an extension of her anger. Then she bends to pick up her scarf. “Don't act like it’s not a possibility. And don't pretend that things will all magically work out just because you say so.”

He catches the pants and steps into them. Once he’s half-dressed, he puts his hands on his hips, attempting to stare her down. “You're right. All of that is possible. But it's also possible that things will go very differently than that. That maybe they won't be completely terrible. Maybe they’ll even be good.”

She turns from him and moves a step or two before bending and retrieving a shoe from the floor. She pulls it on aggressively and sneers at him while tying the laces. “I don't have that kind of luck.”

He softens a bit at this, again taken by the way that they can be so similar while simultaneously being so opposite. “I didn't used to think I did either. Trust me when I say I have some personal experience with being the center of entropy in the universe. But the truth is that at some point, a lot of that is self-inflicted. And in order to stop living in the shadows of it all, you have to stop making decisions based on fear.”

Her heart races at this, and he notices a flush rising on her cheeks. He’s sure the look she is giving him is murderous. She bends to pick up her other shoe and puts it on, snapping at him over her shoulder. “Fuck you and your fortune cookie wisdom. I'm not doing this out of fear.”

As she finishes tying her shoe, he moves a step closer and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don't believe you.” He intentionally uses a calm, even tone, as he knows the words still spark her ire. As expected, she snaps back up and storms toward him.

“You fucking asshole! Listening to my heart right now?! Seriously?! Can't you just le-”

He raises his hands in surrender and moves away from her, toward the doorway. He’s not quite blocking her exit, but he’s trying to get her to pause enough to listen to him. “Jess, it has nothing to do with your heart rate. I just… know what you're doing because I've done it myself. And I know where that impulse to run comes from.” He takes a few more steps toward the door, then bends to retrieve her jacket. Once he has it in hand, he walks back slowly and holds out it out to her. When he speaks, his voice is soft but not lacking intensity, He feels her still to consider him.

“So if you truly want to leave, go ahead and go. I won't stop you and we'll chalk this up to a misunderstanding and never speak of it again. But if you're trying to leave because you're afraid? Don’t. _Please_ don't. Let's get through this together instead of you running off to deal with it alone.”

“And yet you know how fucked up I am. Why the hell would you want anything to do with my issues?”

He takes a breath and gives a long exhale to steady himself. “Because I lov-”

“ _Don't!_ Don't you fucking dare. Do _not_ fucking say that to me.” She snarls and stalks forward, snatching the jacket out of his hands.

He sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head. The rustle of leather and zippers tells him that she is pulling her jacket on. He runs a hands through his hair and feels the other flexing in and out of a fist where it hangs at his side. He counts down from ten in his head, and tries one last time to convince her not to go because he cares for her. If only she could let go of that fear.

“Look, I'm not trying to scare you or hurt you. I just want you to know I'm not going anywhere. And I want you to know that I care about you. I'll be here when you need me. When you're ready. That's all I'm trying to say, Jess.”

She stands silent and still, looking at him and fidgeting with the zipper of her jacket. Eventually she blows out a sigh that sounds pained. He catches the scent of salt and notices a single tear sliding down her cheek. Her voice is not much more than a whisper when she answers him. “Yeah, well don’t wait up for me.”

She turns and stalks toward the door, and Matt feels his heart fracturing with every inch that she puts between them. But despite his inner monologue screaming to follow after her, to try to convince her to stay, he is frozen. The sensation of tears running down his cheeks as she closes his front door is a surprise, and he roughly wipes them away. He walks to the living room, trying hard to keep from listening to her heart beat getting fainter with every step she takes away, but he finds it is a nearly impossible task. He catches the scent of the whiskey bottle where it sits in front of the chair Jessica occupied earlier. He picks it up and drinks deep without a moment’s hesitation. It takes a sizable effort, but he attempts to focus on the flavor of the whiskey, making himself identify and name each individual note instead of listening to Jessica leaving. It works for a time, but as she walks out of his range, he feels himself start to slip into old habits.

A desire to give into the depths of his self-pity surges up and threatens to consume him whole. Instead, he swallows down another drink of whiskey and calls up the sound of her laugh in his memory, as well as her soft and unguarded voice from earlier in the evening. He takes a brief moment to praise the fact that he had the opportunity to experience that side of her at all, and breathes a silent prayer that it won’t be the last. She just needs more time, and it seems the least of things that he could give her.

When he goes to get in bed a little while later, he pulls back the sheets only to find two holes in them, sending his thoughts into a tailspin as he remembers what transpired between them earlier. He suddenly finds the idea of sleep very daunting. Still, he lays down and tries to calm himself, imagining a different scenario for the evening in which Jessica had not run away from him and had instead agreed to try to be with him- a reality in which she was able to accept and return the feelings he has for her. Miraculously, he falls asleep to that scene playing in his head, but when he wakes up the next morning, it comes as a massive disappointment when realizes it was all just a dream. He can only hope that one day his reality will be better than what he has concocted in his dreams. And hopefully that day will be soon.


	6. Chapter 6: A.K.A. Corrective Experiences

The walk back to her apartment as she leaves Matt’s place is a blur. Jessica’s feet move mindlessly while her thoughts spin out of control. Each step away causes her more guilt, and she finds that she can’t keep from playing back different portions of the interactions they had tonight.

_“But it's a chance I'm willing to take… if you are...”_

As soon as Jessica heard the words leave his mouth, it was like a dam broke in her mind, and it overwhelmed her with want. A want to try again. A want to be better. A want to believe that she could be deserving of kindness and love. And most of all, a want of Matthew Murdock.

She remembers how her heart pounded and how she was glad, for once, that Matt could hear it and could read her body because it was so much easier than telling him what she was thinking.

It was pure impulse that led her over to kiss him. Part of her thinks she should regret it, but she can’t bring herself to- at least not that first kiss. Everything after that? Well, the jury’s still out... but that pesky voice in the back of her head is making a return appearance. This time it's trying to convince her that the only thing that she should regret was leaving and ruining what could have been a very good thing.

_“Bedroom’s directly behind you.”_

_“Read my mind. Sure that’s not one of your skills?”_

_“Not reading your mind, no.”_

_“Does that mean you’re reading my body, Murdock? Without my permission? Tsk-tsk.”_

_“You caught me. Though I believe I said that I try not to read people for personal gain, with an emphasis on_ **_try_.** _But you are quite difficult to ignore.”_

_“Aren't you a fucking charmer.”_

She takes a moment to relish in the freshness of the memory- the clarity with which she can recall the hungry look on his face and the phantom sparks she can still feel on her skin where his fingers had been. The reality of exactly how well things had been going at that point begins to eat at her. She wants to kick herself as she keeps thinking of how being with him felt like a legitimately good thing- an easy thing and a _right_ thing- when she thought nothing ever would again. And best of all, he didn’t seem afraid or intimidated by her or her strength.

_“Worried, Murdock? You might be able to kick my ass in hand-to-hand with your training, but when it comes to brute force, I've got you beat.”_

_“I trust you.”_

_“Buckle up, then.”_

The look on his face had been so open, so … accepting, and that was something that she really hadn’t expected. She tries to curb her ping-ponging thoughts, but once again she is consumed by thoughts of Matt. And the more she thinks of him, the more she sees a balance, a likeness between him and her that she _likes_ if she allows herself to be honest. With all of these thoughts swirling and playing on loop in her head, she can’t seem to remember what the hell had gone so wrong to make her storm out.

And then, the memory of it hits her full force in painstaking detail, nearly stopping in her tracks in the middle of the sidewalk.

_With a soft smile, he leans down to kiss her, then trails his hand down her neck to play along her collarbone. “Well, it's hard to explain but … you're a mess of complexities and contradictions, and something about that is beautiful to me. First there's your voice.” His hand slides back up her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses up the column of her throat in it’s wake, and speaks into the skin of her neck at he continues._

_“It's not the softest or most melodious I've heard, but it's strong and rich and it's alluring in its own way. And not to mention that sharp tongue. You’ve always had a marvelous sense of humor.” She squirms in his arms as he kisses her neck again, threading a hand into her hair._

_“Next, there’s your soft skin and hair, and the scent that is so distinctly you- leather, and whiskey, and a hint of coconut. I’d know you anywhere from that alone, and I can pick you out from a block away.” Something about that makes her pulse jump, and he kisses her pulse point as it does before moving his free hand down from her shoulder to her bicep. He grasps the muscle solidly and she flexes into his hand instinctively, but when he doesn’t apply any real pressure, she relaxes in his hold. He leans in, kissing her softly._

_“And then there's your gifts. You’re capable of such strength, and all of it is hiding under your seemingly slight frame. But you know how to hold your own, and I’ve seen you use it for good. Because you are good, at your core. You're such a surprise. So much more than you seem. You're absolutely lovely, Jessica Jones.”_

She doesn't think she's ever, in her whole life, felt so adored as she did in that moment; and yet, it was precisely because of the vulnerability he made her feel that she had started to doubt. And what a ferocious doubt it had been. She tried to cover it, tried to make herself stay in the moment and _be_ with him, but she had been riding a fine line between control and surrender the entire night. When she allowed her control to slip even the slightest amount, forgetting herself and her strength- and unwittingly taking it out on his sheets in the process- she had gotten spooked and backpedaled _hard._

And then it was only a matter of time before she allowed her crushing doubt and paralyzing fear to invade her thoughts and talk her into leaving. In the moment, she told herself that she was doing it to prevent herself from negatively impacting other people’s lives and getting herself hurt along the way, like she had with Luke.

_“Don't you get it? That's the universe telling me that this was a terrible idea. I never should have kissed you, let alone anything else. Hell, I shouldn't have even come here tonight.”_

She told herself over and over, like a mantra in the background noise of her head, that it was best for both of them this way- to keep them both safe and unattached. But as she remembers Matt’s response, she realizes that regardless of her intentions, she’d been lying to herself all the while.

_“In order to stop living in the shadows of it all, you have to stop making decisions based on fear.”_

He had been right all along, though she is still loathe to admit it, even now when she’s ten blocks away. She had been afraid. (Shit, she still is.) Mostly she’d been afraid of him and the intensity of his feelings for her because, _holy hell_ , he’d tried to tell her he loved her. But she simply couldn’t wrap her brain around the concept. After spending so much time feeling ashamed and carrying so much guilt for all of the terrible things that have happened in her life (whether she was _actually_ responsible for them all or not), it just didn’t make sense. So she recoiled and pushed the thought- and by extension, Matt- away. But now? Now, she’s starting to doubt her original doubts.

It’s amazing to her how, with just a little distance and time, the concept of love and her being deserving of it still baffles her, thought it seems more and more like an option she might like to have the ability to further explore sometime in the future. Just in case there ever did come a time when it might all fall into place and become clear. A time when she could give up her loneliness and self-loathing and try out some acceptance and kindness instead. As she imagines this, a sudden and intense fear begins to churn in the pit of her stomach- the fear that she has ruined this possibility for herself by the way that she left things with Matt. But then she remembers the very last words he said to her. The memory is faint at first, as she was already mentally preparing to leave and wasn’t listening too hard to what he was staying, for fear that he would convince her to stay (again). But as she clenches her eyes shut and focuses all the energy she has on recalling it, the memory comes to her.

_“Look, I'm not trying to scare you or hurt you. I just want you to know I'm not going anywhere. And I want you to know that I care about you. I'll be here when you need me. When you're ready. That's all I'm trying to say, Jess.”_

Looking back on it now, it almost brings a tear to her eye. Because the more she considers his offer, the more she is convinced that she has done absolutely nothing to earn what he’s trying to give her… but she struggles to deny that she wants it anyway. These thoughts carry her the rest of the way home, and with a sigh she realizes that she will never get her brain to turn off long enough to go to sleep without a little help. Once inside her apartment, she walks directly to the kitchen, where an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels waits for her. If she weren’t feeling so overwhelmed and generally shitty, she would try to spare a bit of guilt about her decision to backslide into a habit she’s trying to break, but she really can’t find it in her to care right now. She drinks until she feels her eye-lids getting heavy, and falls into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

\---

Unfortunately, her morning does not prove to be as blissful. As she wakes to the most grating alarm her phone has to offer (since she’s really good at sleeping through the others), she is greeted by a familiar headache, courtesy of her choice of sleeping aid. And that’s not even considering how bad she feels as soon as she remembers the reason she drank enough to have a headache in the first place. Still, she forces herself up and around her apartment, going through the motions of her morning routine, and then begrudgingly sets out to meet the team at the office. She’s crossing every available portion of her body that one thing will go right this morning, and hoping that thing will be that she beats Matt there.

All during her walk to the office, Jessica’s mind continues to run on overdrive. Her circling thoughts put her in a sour mood, though she gets a small reprieve when she realizes that she has successfully arrived before Matt. A small voice in the back of her head wonders how much his morning may have been affected by the events of last evening, but she shuts down that train of thought nearly as soon as it occurs to her. She’s really not prepared to handle the guilt that would result from considering how awful he might be feeling right now.

Claire seems to notice Jessica’s general unhappiness from the moment Jess walks through the door (not that Jessica does a particularly good job of hiding it). As she walks to the kitchen area to get herself some coffee and try to calm the pounding in her head, Claire sidles up and confronts her about her foul mood.

“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Claire leans against the counter, standing just close enough to make it sound like she’s shouting in the confines of the small space.

Jessica winces at the way it worsens her headache. She clenches her eyes shut, then retrieves a mug from the shelf above her. “Maybe the problem was waking up at all. Should have just stayed asleep.”

Claire raises and eyebrow, then nods, crossing her hands over her chest. “Hangover, eh? I’d tell you to eat something and try to get hydrated, but I’m pretty sure that would be a waste of my breath. If memory serves, you’re more of the ‘hair of the dog’ school of thought about that anyway.”

Jessica can’t help the half-smirk that curls her lip at that, but she tries to mask it with some good, old fashioned sarcasm as she reaches for the coffee pot and fills her cup. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Claire rolls her eyes and huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well just remember that you are intentionally disregarding advice from a medical professional. Any harm that comes to you as a result is not my problem.”

Jessica snorts a laugh in response and takes a sip of her coffee. Claire begins fixing her own cup nonchalantly, an expectant silence growing between them. Eventually it’s more than Jessica can handle, and with an exasperated sigh, she encourages Claire to continue.

“So, my super powers might not include telepathy in addition to super strength, but I can tell that there’s more that you want to say. So do us both a favor, and just say it.”

Claire turns to face Jessica, leaning sideways against the counter. She sets down her cup and raises her hands in a placating gesture. “Fair enough. Well, something seems off for you today- more than just a hangover. You’re extra unhappy, and that’s saying _a lot_. And unfortunately for the rest of us, you have the ability to spread your cheer, or lack thereof, wherever you go. I’ll admit it’s a little selfish to say this, but things were pretty damn good around here until yesterday, and we really don’t need any more despair or moodiness on top of dealing with Elektra. So is there something you want to talk about?”

Jessica blinks at Claire and uses the flattest voice she can muster to respond. “Did you just seriously ask me that question?”

Claire gives an exasperated sigh and picks up her coffee to take another sip. “I know that’s not your style, but all of us have things we need to get off of our chests now and then. If you won’t tell me, at least let me try to guess.”

That actually makes Jessica chuckle. She’s almost certain that Claire won’t be able to guess what’s really going on, so she agrees to Claire’s terms, if only because she needs a reason to laugh this morning. “Knock yourself out, Nancy Drew.”

Claire pauses for a minute, fixing Jessica with an appraising look while Jessica takes a leisurely sip of coffee. But she doesn’t feel leisurely for long. “Did you and Matt have a fight?”

The question might as well have been a bullet for the way it eviscerates Jessica’s sense of calm, causing a cocktail of conflicting emotions to brew in her chest. The shock turns her eyes into saucers while she nearly choke on her coffee. The embarrassment makes her blush. The anger, though, burns hot and bright as spreads throughout her body, and as soon as she recovers the ability to speak, it gives a sharp, venomous edge to her voice. “Excuse me, what?” She blinks a few times, hands curling into fists as her sides as she imagines strangling Matt the next time she sees him. She may, unintentionally, let some of that fury out in her growling voice. "What the hell did he say to you?”

Claire, however, is completely unfazed by Jessica’s response. With a smile that borders on being smug, she sets her coffee down and leans against the counter again, her other hand on her hip. “He didn’t say a thing. He didn’t have to. Look, I may not be a P.I., but I can be observant from time to time. You two have been hanging out more often lately, and you both seem … _happier_ when you’re around one another. Eventually I put two and two together. And honestly, I think it’s kind of cute.”

Jessica’s blood pressure returns to a more normal level as she determines that she doesn’t actually have to strangle Matt, but the realization that they could be found out by anyone else who is paying attention makes her anxiety spike all over again. She takes a deep breath as she feels herself go into damage control mode. She sets her coffee down, placing both hands on the counter and leaning into it as she clenches her eyes shut and tries to think of what to do next. “Shit. Who else knows? Did you tell-”

But Claire is having none of it. She takes a step toward Jessica and places a tentative hand on her shoulder. She does a quick sweep of the office to ensure that no one has heard their conversation, then softens her voice. “Relax, I didn’t say anything to Luke or to anyone else.”

Jessica scowls at the cabinet in front of her for a moment, then eventually turns to meet Claire’s eyes. With a deflating sigh, she decides that Claire is being honest, though this revelation doesn’t calm Jessica’s pounding heart as much as she wishes it did.

After a beat passes, in which Jessica goes back to sipping on her coffee, Claire huffs and shrugs. “For what it’s worth, Matt’s a great guy. I really did care about him … and in some ways I still do. I just couldn’t watch him punish himself over and over for being a human being. I think he’s grown out of some of that. But I’m sure you’ll break him of the rest of it in no time. Martyrdom gets old after a while, and you don’t strike me as the type to suffer any fools.”

There is entirely too much adrenaline in Jessica's system for her to engage her rational brain and give Claire any verbal response, so she settles for silence and a look of skeptical exasperation as she sips from her coffee. Claire flattens her lips to keep from chuckling at the sight.

“I guess I’m just trying to say that I’m happy for you, and I think that you’re good for each other. You help balance one another out.”

Jessica rolls her eyes. “Well, thanks. I guess. But promise me you will continue not to say anything to anyone else?”

Claire smirks and places a hand over her heart. “I’m sworn to secrecy. And I hope you two work things out... sooner rather than later.” Satisfied with her handiwork, she picks up her coffee and turns, walking a couple of steps toward to the conference room, but then she pauses and turns back. Jessica doesn't think she likes the tentative look on Claire's face as she does, and as soon as Claire speaks, Jessica decides that she was right not to.

“You know he doesn’t hate you, right?”

On some level, somehow, somewhere in the back of her brain, Jessica thinks she does, in fact, know this (and seems to instinctively know who “he” is). But the rest of her thinking brain is unconvinced that her theory could actually be correct. Because there's just no way…

She looks at Claire with a confused sort of glower but doesn't move from her spot. Irritation colors her tone as she asks Claire to elaborate. “What are you talking about?”

Claire gives Jessica a knowing look, keeping her voice low. “Luke. He really doesn’t. I’ve seen the way you avoid him, but you should know that he forgives you. Hey, I don’t know all that went down between you two, but I know that if it had anything to do with Kilgrave, it was horrible and needlessly painful for everyone involved. I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I can tell you with confidence that he doesn’t hate you. If anything he’s just… sorry about how everything turned out.”

A strange and inexplicable lightness settles in Jessica’s chest, but it feels uncomfortable at best, and unwarranted at worst, so she looks hard at the floor instead of at Claire. “Yeah. Him and me both.’

With a hum and a smile, Claire turns to head toward the others again. But Jessica needs to say something, she knows she does, so she calls out before Claire gets too far.  “Hey, Claire… thanks.” She just can’t seem to mask the genuine gratitude in her tone, but not for lack of trying.

Claire just shakes her head and stifles a chuckle at the ruse. ”No thanks necessary. I’m just using my _gifts_ and doing what I can to help out the team. And I’m happy to do that whenever you need.”

Something about the glint in Claire’s eye tell Jessica that she’s sincere with her offer to help. It’s almost as if Claire cares about her and wants her to be happy. Huh. Who would’ve thought? Jessica finds herself laughing internally at the idea that joining this merry band of super-idiots may have actually been a good thing for her. “I’ll, uh, try to remember that.”

Claire nods and grins at her. “Baby steps.” Then she turns and wanders off toward the conference room.

As Jessica stands in the kitchen, considering Claire’s words and sipping at her coffee, she finally hears the front door open. She turns casually to see Matt walking in and sucks in a deep breath immediately, in an effort to help herself remain calm and inconspicuous. She watches him walk to his office, then drops her head, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the composite countertop in front of her. After topping off her cup of coffee, she sets off toward the conference room, careful to maintain a narrow field of vision, blocking out anything that isn’t directly in front of her. But eventually, the temptation to look in his direction becomes too much, and she can’t keep from checking on him out of the corner of her eye. When she sneaks a glance, she catches him in the middle of a conversation with Danny about something incomprehensible- probably having to do with a particular martial art or fighting style- but she doesn’t miss the monotonous tone he uses or the return of the flat, stoic mask that he used to wear so regularly, before she and he had… gotten closer. It probably shouldn’t be surprising that the sight of it bothers her, but she isn’t prepared for just how much it hurts to see the absence of the brighter, more open expression that she has gotten so used to seeing on his face. The only good thing about seeing him this way is that it makes it that much easier for her to ignore him, if only to avoid the extra guilt that she feels when she looks at him.

Throughout the morning, she’s quite successful at giving him a wide berth and, generally, ignoring his existence unless it’s absolutely necessary to acknowledge him. If he notices her avoiding him, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge it in any way. In fact, he barely seems to acknowledge her either. She’s not sure if that makes her feel better or worse. Against her will, she hears Claire’s words continuing to pop up in her head, adding to the immense guilt that is already weighing her down. Knowing that this is the prelude to a day full of circuitous and pitying self-hatred running on loop in the background of her mind, she reaches for her flask. And then she has to curb the sudden and intense desire to flip the conference table in front of her one-handed, because her flask is empty; she forgot to refill it this morning in her half-hearted attempts at getting ready.

She internally chastises herself for this oversight because she could really use some whiskey to take the edge off, to try to dull her feelings enough that she can get on with the rest of the day. Needing an outlet and unable to stand another moment in the office with Matt’s grim presence at her back, she sneaks off to the restroom and splashes some water on her face. The water is nice and cold, and it helps to settle her back in her body and in the present moment. As she raises her head up, she catches her own reflection in the mirror and can’t help but scowl back at it, as if she could somehow separate herself from this image, and in doing so, expel all of her guilt and anger onto _her_. She dries her face, all the while trying to force her mind to focus on the next step of their group plan. She glances once more at her reflection and tells herself that she will work on fixing things with Matt … but after they finish their group business, because there’s nothing she can do about Matt right now. Sighing, she gears up to head back into the room and prepare to move with the others.

\---

Several hours later, as they are taking on Elektra and her seemingly unending army of ninjas in the crumbling makeshift tunnel system beneath Midland Circle, Jessica curses herself and everyone in their group for thinking their plan wouldn’t completely backfire. Granted, she wouldn’t have expected it to backfire quite so quickly or spectacularly, but she should have paid more attention to the voice in the back of her head warning her that it could. Clearly, her time around Matt has blunted her pessimistic tendencies to expect the worst at all times. She finds herself making a mental note to give him shit about that later… until she remembers that she needs to apologize to him first, not to mention have a conversation about whether or not they’ll continue hanging out in a context in which she would be able to give him shit. As she thinks that cursed thought, she takes a moment to appreciate how god-awful her mood has suddenly become. But as she ducks last minute out of the way of a punch that she didn’t (and really should have) seen coming, she pauses all of those thoughts until later. And when she does, she finds it’s actually a bit of a relief to turn off her brain and let her body work on instinct and muscle memory. Plus, there is something strangely satisfying about the sound that a well-placed punch can produce. And if she’s taking out a bit of her own internal frustration and guilt on her enemies, she’ll just consider that a lucky coincidence.

Jessica tries to concentrate on the fight taking place in front of her, but she keeps seeing flashes of red as Elektra weaves between fighters in a sea of black. And wherever Jessica sees Elektra, she never fails to see Matt several paces ahead, as though he’s being targeted by her, specifically. Something about that makes Jessica a dangerous combination of furious and terrified at the same time. The memory of the conversation she and Matt had about Elektra several nights ago surfaces in her mind, and she does the best she can to keep a general eye on the two of them in between the punches and kicks that she’s dodging, just in case she needs to step in and help him out. Hopefully not to … end her like they had briefly discussed, but at least to give him the moral support he most definitely needs when coming up against the zombie, assassin, cult member version of his former lover.

As the last Hand member from the latest (and hopefully final) wave hits the ground at her feet, Jessica takes a minute to catch her breath and take stock of the situation. She scans the area and sees Luke helping Rand up, while Matt is … nowhere to be found. A chill suddenly runs down her spine when she doesn’t spot Elektra anywhere either, and she can’t explain exactly why, only that something doesn’t feel right. She starts to circle around the space, investigating the tunnels that splinter off into different caverns and rooms in an attempt to decipher where they might have ended up. She pauses as she passes one tunnel, thinking she hears the faintest murmuring, like the sound of distant voices. She tiptoes quietly in that direction to investigate further.

As Jessica continues on through the tunnel, she eventually sees it opens into a small room where she hears the trickle of water and wonders if they must be near some kind of drainage system. Before she reaches the end of the tunnel, while still several feet back from it’s mouth, she sees Matt and Elektra. And they seem to be in the middle of an intense emotional exchange. Jessica stills and surveys them to find Matt’s concentration rapt on Elektra, his hand outstretched toward her, while tears stain Elektra's face. He looks to be in anguish, more emotional than she’s ever seen him, and totally pre-occupied. Jessica doesn’t think he even noticed her approach, and this thought causes the ominous sense of unease from several moments ago to return, with added force. She continues to scan the scene, noticing the view she has of them, which is something between a straight profile and a ninety degree angle. From the vantage point where she stands, she catches a glint of light on Elektra’s leg through the shadows of her cloak. Immediately Jessica remembers the sais that had nearly impaled her the last time she encountered Elektra. But right now, Elektra is not on the offensive. She doesn’t actually appear to be fighting with Matt at all, but something about the way he seems so deaf to the rest of the world, and the conflicted look on Elektra’s face, combined with the strange stillness of her hand in relation to the hidden weapon strapped to her leg tells Jessica that a fight could break out any second. But before she can think to open her mouth to warn Matt, the sound of their conversation reaches her ears.

“Elektra, please. You have a choice- about who you are and what you do. You don’t have to listen to their lies. You’re not their puppet.” He sounds so desperate with his pleading, and it hits Jessica like a blow to the stomach.

“But what if I am, Matthew? And who’s to say which side is lying? What if Stick, the Chaste, and even _you_ are the ones telling lies, and I’m just finally hearing the truth for the first time- the truth that some part of me always knew, deep in my soul?”

“I don’t believe any of that. Because that doesn’t sound like the woman I fell in love with.” His voice is dangerously close to wavering, and Jessica gets the distinct impression that she is an unwelcome intruder on this moment, which both parties appear to believe they are sharing only with one another. But she can’t turn away because the hair on her arms is still standing on end, and she's sure that disaster will strike any minute now.

Jessica finds that she is holding her breath as Elektra’s face crumbles. She watches unblinkingly as Elektra wipes away the tears that have fallen down her cheeks and fixes Matt with a sad smile. “And that’s why I love you. Because you never gave up on me.” Jessica is frozen in place as she watches Elektra lean in to kiss Matt, wrapping her closest hand around Matt’s neck. But just before her lips touch his, she whispers something that Jessica barely catches. “But it’s going to make things that much harder for the both of us.” Jessica sees Elektra’s far hand disappear into her cloak, and her heart stops for a split second. But she’s hoping that any time now, Matt will realize what’s happening and respond with his crazy-fast reflexes, like always. But another half-second passes, and she’s still waiting.

It’s at this point that Jessica’s brain finally starts accepting the possibility that Matt is so overwhelmed and distressed in this moment, that he is totally off guard and vulnerable, meaning she will have to step in. As Elektra presses her lips to Matt’s, Jessica sees Elektra’s far hand creeping out of her cloak, sai poised at Matt’s back. Before she can register a conscious thought about what she’s doing, Jessica hears herself yelling.

“Matt, watch out!”

The trance that Elektra had Matt in moments before is broken, and he freezes for a millisecond before he reads the situation and detects the threat behind Jessica’s warning. Immediately he grabs Elektra by the shoulders, pulling her arms away from her her body, and knees her directly in the stomach. As she reels, coughing and sputtering and attempting to regain her breath, Matt pivots back and away, into a crouch that’s out of her reach.

Jessica takes this moment to rush out of the tunnel and toward Elektra’s other side, opening her up to an assault from two directions. As Elektra turns and bends to block a throw that Jessica sends at her face, she grins slyly. She raises slowly into a defensive stance as Matt and Jessica circle her, then fixes Jessica with a devious smirk.

“Oh good, you’re back. I was so looking forward to repaying you for the last time we met. I’ll have you know I had a boot-shaped bruise on my back for days. A nice gift, if a temporary one. I think you’ll find my mementos to be a bit more… permanent.”

Distantly, Jessica notices Luke and Danny emerging from the tunnel, _finally_ coming to check on her and Matt (she’ll have to address that at their debrief meeting later), but her attention shifts immediately back to Elektra, who pulls out a second sai from the depths of her cloak and launches forward. But Jessica is more than prepared to fight her, and not just because she doesn’t want to get stabbed. (It's mostly, _probably_ about not getting stabbed, though it may be in -very- small part due to the fact that it's personal now that Elektra has tried to hurt Matt; but Jessica would never, in a million years, admit that to anyone.) When Elektra attempts an attack, Jessica doesn't hold back at all. In fact, she holds back so little that after she blocks the second strike, Jessica grabs Elektra’s arm- one hand at her shoulder and one at her wrist- and uses all of her considerable strength to fling her backward, sending her flying into a concrete pillar, some ten feet away. Upon impact, Elektra groans, then crumples to the ground in a heap.

In the span of one heartbeat, Matt is frantic, rushing across the space and crying out. “Elektra!” The distress in his tone makes Jessica’s heart clench, but she’s not willing to stick around and wait for Elektra to come to, just so she can try to take advantage of him again. Jessica sees Luke and Danny share a look in her periphery as she sighs and jumps directly in front of Matt, arms out and bracing against his shoulders, blocking his path.

“She’s not dead, and I’m sure she’ll be fine. But we need to go while we have an opening.”

“I’ll be right back, just let me go ch-”

“Matt, we need to leave.”

“Jessica, let me go!”

“Now is not the time for-”

He brings up his hands to grip her wrists, and though she’s sure he knows it will be futile, he tries with all of his might to remove her hands. But she does not relent in the force she is using to restrain him. As he tests her grip, she watches as his his whole demeanor changes. His face morphs into a menacing snarl, and he uses what she can only assume is his most threatening vigilante voice.

“ _I said, let go._ ” The silence in the little room in the wake of his words is earsplitting. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard Danny be so quiet. Ever. (Not even when he fell asleep in the office that one time.) In her peripheral vision, she sees that Luke ushers him quietly back into the tunnel to give the two of them space.

Jessica fixes Matt with a hard stare, increases the pressure of her hold just enough to get his attention, and does her best to mimic his tone. “ _Hey_. Be as mad as you want to at me. God knows I deserve it. But I will not stand here and watch her manipulate you again. Maybe she’s not all the way gone, but we still don’t know how to get her back and keep her that way. Deep down I think you know we can’t trust her right now; and even if we could, I refuse to let you be alone with her, because she could have orders to pretend to be ‘cured’ so that she can gut you like a fucking fish the second your guard is down... just like she tried to do two minutes ago! I know you still care for her, Matt, but she’s gonna use that against you. And I, for one, am not okay with that. So either we both walk out of here right now, or I’m picking you up and carrying you out myself. You choose, but either way we’re leaving.”

Jessica doesn’t think she’s ever seen Matt so angry. It’s really a sight to behold- the way his lip curls and his nostrils flare, the way he seems to tremble with all that is simmering beneath the surface, when in reality he is eerily calm and controlled externally. After a beat of tense silence passes between them, he exhales and pulls his hands away forcefully as he answers her in a dangerously sharp voice. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”

She can’t help but sigh as he turns and heads toward the tunnel. “Of course it isn’t.” She speaks it more to the ground beneath her shoes than to him, though she’s glad that he’s still within earshot, thanks to his super sense. She supposes she should be happy she was able to convince him to back down, yet she’s not completely sure that she is. And something tells her that no matter how difficult the continuation of this conversation will be, it’s still going to be leaps and bounds easier than the _other_ conversation they need to have. The one in which she will have to apologize. But with a sigh and one more curse at herself for not refilling her flask, she decides that is a concern that can wait until they’ve regrouped at the office and made a new plan with the intel they’ve gathered today.

\---

When they re-group at the former offices of Nelson & Murdock, the general mood of whole team is lousy. Though their official discussion centers around strategizing and next steps in their battle with the Hand, the same questions linger unspoken in everyone’s minds: What are they going to do about Elektra? And what impact is it going to have on Matt?

Jessica is not at all surprised when the rest of the group seems to dissipate into thin air as they wrap up, though Claire lingers just long enough to share a meaningful look with her and then casually motions toward Matt before she leaves. Jessica frowns and steals a glance at him over her shoulder, seeing him sitting alone in his office, head in his hands. With a sigh, she slowly turns in his direction. Knowing he can hear her coming, and thus can get up to leave or tell her to stop at any point, she walks across the length of the suite until she comes to his doorway. She leans her forearm against the frame and just stands for a moment, waiting to see if he’ll say something. When several beats pass and he doesn’t, she accepts the fact that she will need to be the one to start, though she really doesn’t know how. For a moment, she considers going the band-aid route and just starting directly with the part she’s least prepared to talk about, while getting it over with as soon as possible. But when she actually opens her mouth, she can't make herself form the words. Instead, she hesitates long enough that she starts to panic and goes with the first thing that comes to her head.

“Crazy day.” She cringes at herself because that just might be the lamest understatement of the year.

“That's one way to put it.” His flat tone is back, and it grates at her.

“Hey, I was trying to be diplomatic. Usually I'd just call it a clusterfuck.” She attempts some of her typical sarcasm to lighten his mood.

But it doesn’t appear to help. He gives her a false smile with no hint of mirth or lightness, and his voice remains a monotonous drone. “You do have such a way with words.”

She squints at him and tries not to read too much into that comment at the present moment. “So… are you doing okay?”

This seems to jolt a measure of life into him. He takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

She pushes off of the doorframe and moves into his office, dropping heavily into one of the chairs sitting across from his desk. As she settles in, she goes to reach for her flask but aborts the motion halfway through when she remembers that it's empty. “Shit.”

“What?” He cocks his head, as though trying to assess the reason for her outburst.

“Well, hell must have finally frozen over, because I'm out of whiskey.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Maybe that’s for the best. At this point, I think it might just make things worse.”

“Back to that narrative then. Okay, you prude.”

He doesn’t answer her, just steeples his arms on his desk and leans his head against his hands. Feeling embarrassed that he may have taken her attempt to bait him into joking as a personal insult, she looks down for a minute. She’s practically buzzing with nervous energy, afraid to say what she knows she needs to say. But after a beat, she decides to bite the bullet and say it. She sucks her teeth and blows out a labored exhale.

“So… I guess I owe you an apology.”

He raises his eyebrows and inclines his head toward her. “I'm not intentionally trying to be a dick about this, but can I ask which part of the last twenty four hours you're referring to?”

She sighs and hangs her head for a moment, chewing her lip and trying to convince herself to stay sitting, instead of getting up and bolting for the door so she can escape from the guilt and shame and fear that he is reminding her to feel. In the end, she squeezes the arms of the chair so hard that she hears the metal start to whine under the pressure of her fingers, before taking a deep breath to calm herself. She blows out a long, controlled exhale as she releases her grip. “I guess I probably deserve that. Mostly I was referring to last night, but maybe I could also stand to apologize for how I handled things earlier this evening too.”

He sighs and runs restless hands through his hair. He sounds utterly defeated when he speaks. “Thanks, Jess... But it’s okay. Especially the part with Elektra. I brought that on myself.”

“Maybe not _all_ of it … but a solid portion for sure.” She tries to lay on the sarcasm again, hoping to crack the stoic mask that is hardening his handsome face.

His mouth curves in the imitation of a smile that still lacks genuine warmth, but it seems like a degree of improvement from before. “It’s crazy. It's like she knew exactly what to say to make me wonder about her and hope that she wasn’t completely lost.”

“Well, I mean, she did. She _used_ to be Elektra- your Elektra. Is she still that person now? Who the fuck knows. But we do know that there’s a reason that they picked her, Matt. And they are intentionally targeting you through her… as shitty as that is.”

“And here I didn’t think my day could get any worse.” She doesn’t think she’s imagining the edge of sarcasm in his voice this time, as though she’s finally making progress breaking through his mask.

“Yeah, well that’s going around lately.” She can’t help but smirk to herself as he huffs a laugh and gives her a small, genuine smile.

He clears his throat and hangs his head. “I’m sorry, too. For how I acted earlier. I wasn’t actually mad at you.”

She settles further back into the chair, bringing up one foot to rest on her knee. “I think you were… just about something else. But I don’t blame you either way. I know how much you still care about her. I just didn’t want her to use that to hurt you. They’ve got her under some serious mind control, or brainwashing, whatever. But regardless of what it is, she’s not the real her right now. And thanks to Kilgrave, I know how it feels when someone you care about turns on you like that. And it fucking sucks. Especially if you have to do something that ends up hurting them in order to save yourself.”

With a sigh, he raises his head and nods at her. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for trying to protect me from being put in that position, even if I didn't want you to.”

She can’t explain exactly why, but something about his response makes her a little chagrined. She fidgets in her chair, turning to look down and away from him. “Yeah, well, it’s always easier to see from the outside. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

He’s silent for a moment, and she eventually looks up to see him with a faraway look on his face, brows furrowed. His tone is wistful when he speaks, and raw. “God, I don't know what it is about her, but I can't help but hope she's not … truly gone. I have this almost visceral need to try to save her and try to convince her to see her own light side, or protect her from those who would corrupt her. But she's  _so_ far from the Elektra that I knew and loved. You probably think I'm an idiot for believing that she could still be that person.”

There is decidedly less judgment in her tone than there would have been a month ago. Now, only snark and a hint of playfulness remain. “I think you're human and you're in love, both of which can lead a person to act in ways that look a lot like idiocy.”

He chuckles in spite of himself and shakes his head at her. “Well, you're right about one thing. I'm definitely human. And I definitely still care about her. Maybe I still love her, in a way. But I'm not so sure about being _in love_ … at least, not with Elektra.”

Even though the last part comes out under his breath and she’s not entirely sure he meant it (or thought very hard about what he was saying _before_ he said it), she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath as she is suddenly forced into the part of the conversation that she has trying to avoid all day long. “About that-”

He interrupts her almost immediately, realizing what he's done and trying to backpedal. She can hear self-reproach coloring his tone just as clearly as she can see the grimace on his face. “Jess, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. That wasn't fair at all-”

“Yeah, but, look- I'm the one who should be apologizing for how I ran out on you last night.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something but stops, pressing his lips into a thin line. He leans back in his chair, tilting his head as if assessing her. When he speaks, his voice is hesitant and soft. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

Even though she can’t technically meet his eyes anyway, having to look him in the face at all right now feels like an impossible task. She clenches her eyes shut and leans forward until her elbows come to rest on her knees, her head resting in her hands. “I don’t know. I mean … I didn't want to leave, not really. But… i-it was a lot, okay? And old instincts kicked in. But are you honestly surprised? I thought I was pretty clear about the fact that I’m complete shit when it comes to relationships. Like, you can bet large sums of money on it without worrying about losing a single penny, kind of awful.”

She hears him sigh and give a sort of sad hum, but she still won’t allow herself to look at him. He continues anyway. “I know. And I meant what I said. I'm happy to help you work through whatever you're struggling with, and I'm not going anywhere.” His voice is so soft, so genuinely concerned with absolutely no hint of disappointment or accusation, and it makes her heart stutter. She finds herself losing the battle of whether or not to look up at him after all.

She chews her lip while debating how to tell him what is really bothering her. She's pretty sure that despite how deeply she feels it, any sane person would say it's a completely ridiculous thing to think, so she doesn't know how to tell him in a way that will make any sense to him. Finally, she gives up one the idea that she could be successful at communicating her true meaning, and hopes that sarcasm will help to mask the absurdity of what she's saying.

“Right. So, I’m gonna try to pretend all of that is supposed to sound helpful and reassuring.”

“Instead of …?” The genuinely confused tone he uses finally convinces her to look up at him. As she does, she finds his head tilted and a concerned frown on his face.

Jessica scoffs and shoots up, suddenly pacing in the space behind the chair. Her voice comes out strangled, thin, and desperate as she feels like she’s suffocating from all of the things she’s feeling in the cramped space of his office.

“Sounding like a lot of fucking pressure that I don’t want to live with! In case it’s somehow slipped your mind, allow me to remind you- I may not be a zombie assassin, but that doesn’t mean I’m a well-adjusted human adult. I’m super fucked up, and there is absolutely no way that I can promise you _anything_! Not now, not in the future. Do you get that? Do you understand that every time I’m around you, there’s a voice in the back of my head screaming to run as far and as fast as I can because I will never be able to be what you want, no matter how long or how hard I try?”

In the midst of her outburst and pacing, she stopped paying attention to him, but as her tirade ends and she calms herself, she notices that a tense silence has fallen between them. She stills and looks over to see Matt standing, frozen at his desk, and wearing a wounded expression.

“Jess, is that really what you think? That I don’t know what I’m getting myself into or that I expect you to magically transform into a different person? Because I don’t. I see you for who you are _right_ _now_ , and I care about you for being that person. That’s it. I’m not trying to put any pressure on you. All I’m offering to do is be there for you if you choose to be with me, or if you decide you want my help. But honestly, all I care about is you being happy, whether or not that means being with me. It's really that simple.”

Her heart is beating all the way through her ribcage, and she’s nearly cut through her palms with her fingernails from how hard she’s clenching her hands into fists at her sides. She can’t raise her gaze from the top of his desk, though she’s not actually looking at anything there. She finds her chest getting tight and clenches her eyes shut as she attempts to ensure her breathing remains deep and even. A panic attack would definitely be unwelcome right now.

She can't help but be startled by how honest he sounds. But she's startled even more by how she wants so desperately to believe him. After a couple of beats, she shakes her head and opens her eyes. She takes a calming breath and works to keep her tone sarcastic and disinterested to mask the emotion that she is afraid might slip through at any moment. “You’re a bigger dumbass than I thought if you think that being happy could ever be a simple thing for me.”

A shy smile curls his mouth at her attempt at humor. “Maybe so. But maybe it doesn’t have to be quite as complicated as you think.”

It takes a whole five seconds for her to finally cave to the desire she has to believe him, but she uses all of her willpower to appear unconvinced for as long as she possibly can. “ _If_ I agree to give this a try, and it all ends as disastrously as I imagine it will, you better believe I’ll be ruthless in saying ‘I told you so’.”

The smirk that he gives her causes her pulse to jump. “Something tells me that won’t be a problem.”

She spares a singular moment to be astonished by him and how, despite his blindness, he manages to see completely through her, as though she were as transparent as a pane of glass. Going against the fear response that is going off in her brain and telling her to run, she somehow decides to agree to his (admittedly insane) plan before she finds a way to talk herself out of it.  _Again_. She starts walking toward him slowly, feigning irritation with her tone. “So, what would it take to get you to lay off with that obnoxious optimism?”

An exaggeratedly wolfish grin draws across his face and he drops his voice to a low, gravelly tone. “I can think of a few ways to keep my mouth occupied…”

She pauses on her path toward him, crossing her arms in front of her chest and rolling her eyes. “Smart ass.”

But he pays the comment no mind, smiling smugly in response. “I’m fairly confident that’s one of the things you love most about me."

“Meh, jury’s still out. But I’ll take your argument under advisement.”

She steps up to him and pulls him in for a kiss. As she does, he wraps one arm around her waist and he raises his other hand to her face, caressing her cheek gently, almost reverently. The sincerity of the gesture steals her breath and makes her heart start to swell. But this time, instead of recoiling out of fear or being overwhelmed by the feeling of her chest constricting around her swelling heart, she forces herself to breathe deeply into the feeling. And as she does, the swelling grows and grows, filling her lungs until it crests, then breaks softly into a hundred warm points of light that rush up her spine, blooming somewhere in the back of her brain, before washing her with a general feeling of contentedness.

She pulls back, nearly panting, and rests her forehead against his as she clenches her eyes shut. “Damn.”

He chuckles and traces her cheek again. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just … creating new ‘neural pathways’, apparently.”

“What was that?”

She huffs an exasperated sigh, and pushes back just until she can comfortably link her hands behind his neck, resting her arms on his shoulders. “It’s something that happens when you have ‘healthy’ or ‘corrective experiences’ after trauma. It means that your brain is rewiring and creating new neural connections to replace the unhealthy ones that were developed during trauma… or something like that.”

He fixes her with a baffled smile. “It’s fascinating to me that you know that.”

“Well, don't get too excited. Trish made me go see a therapist after I escaped from Kilgrave, but I only went a few times. I didn’t get much out of it… though, apparently, I got more out of it than I originally thought.”

“I’m just happy to hear you acknowledge the possibility for positive change, however unintentionally you may have acknowledged it. And you know, the more I hear about Trish, the more I think I need to meet her and thank her for being such a good friend to you.” He raises his eyebrows and gives her a seemingly genuine smile, but she's not falling for that.

“Do _not_ push your luck, Murdock.” She pokes him in the chest as she speaks to emphasize her words and to supplement her warning tone.

He swallows a laugh and raises his hands in a show of surrender. “Noted.”

She smiles in spite of herself, and gives him one more gentle kiss before pulling away and sitting on the edge of his desk, hands in her jacket pockets. “So, not to shit all over the Hallmark moment we just had, but what now? What about everything else in our lives that’s still fucked up? Like, what about the next time we fight or I freak out and get scared? And what are we gonna do about Elektra?”

With a sigh, he sets his jaw and stands stills for a moment, considering. Finally, he takes in a deep breath and opens his mouth to speak. “Those are legitimate questions that I would love to have open and honest discussions about… on a night that isn’t tonight.”

She exhales a big sigh of relief at that. They've already had one heart-to-heart today, and she doesn't think she could handle another. “Thank god.”

He huffs a laugh at her, but pauses for a moment, brows drawn in concentration. Silently she takes stock of her internal processes to determine what he's paying attention to. She's surprised to notice that her heart rate is slightly elevated, and it takes her a moment to realize that she's feeling anxious. Because, sure, she's glad to not have to address those issues tonight, but they'll have to do it _eventually_ , and he hasn't exactly answered her question. Seeming to read her remaining anxiety, he reaches out a hand and puts it on her shoulder, voice gentle and reassuring when he speaks. “But before you get too carried away with negative thoughts about all the ways that things could end ‘disastrously’, just remember that whatever happens, we’ll handle it. Together. You don't have to take on any of it by yourself.”

Slowly, she raises her head to look into his face, and somehow she knows he means what he's saying. And it makes her feel reassured- more so than she has felt in a long while. She takes a hand out of her pocket and places it on top of his where it rests on her shoulder, squeezing lightly to thank him. Her heart starts to feel like it's swelling inside her chest again, and she breathes into the feeling, waiting for it break. As soon as it does, she shakes her head to clear the remaining sensations and decides she's done quite enough growing today, thank you very much. Should any other intense emotional situations arise tonight, she will resort to her … second favorite coping mechanism of sarcasm (thanks to her empty flask).

She playfully bats his hand away and gives a half-hearted scoff before responding in a sardonic tone. “Thanks for the pep-talk, Mr. Rogers. You know, it’s a really good thing I find you so attractive, because I kind of want to punch you in the mouth right now. But I’d hate to put a bruise on that gorgeous face.” She raises her hand and gently touches his cheek, only to end up pinching it a moment later.

He laughs and smiles brightly, a touch of mischief in his expression. “You’d have to actually land a punch first, Jones.”

She scoffs at him and cocks her head. “Is that some kind of a challenge, Murdock?”

He moves in front of her, bringing his hands up around her neck and leaning his arms on her shoulders. As he speaks, he gives her a comically large shrug. “Well, that depends. Are you accepting?”

She bites her lip to stifle a laugh at his bravado. “As happy as I would be to kick your ass, I’d hate to tear your office to shit in the process. Also, I’d prefer to have an audience.”

He laughs at her- a big, bright, full-throated sound- and she feels warmth bloom in her chest. “I’ll pass on an audience, but I might know a suitable place, if you’re serious about a match. But I’d need some time to make arrangements. I’m not paying to replace that window again.”

With a quirked brow and a chuckle under her breath, she accepts his offer. “I’ll take a rain check, then. Definitely gonna need to hear the story behind that window, though.” She leans in while pulling him in closer so she can whisper in his ear. “And just so know… you don’t have to go through all that trouble just to get me to beat you up. If that's what you want, you could just _ask_.” She casually leans back, letting him pull away slightly though she isn't quite done teasing him yet. “No judgement here. It wouldn't be the first time.”

She wishes she had her camera handy, because the look he gives her at that is nothing short of a work of art- a mix of surprise, confusion, embarrassment, and just a hint of intrigue. But she has to admit that he recovers well, standing straight and sliding his hands down her arms to take her hands in his. His voice evens and his face relaxes into a neutral mask within the span of a few seconds. “Right. Well, why don't we table this particular discussion until later, and think about dinner for now. I just realized I'm starving.”

She can't help the smirk on her face or the smugness in her voice at having thrown him so off balance. “That’s one of the hardest left turns I’ve ever seen anyone make in response to that suggestion, but I’ll let it slide. For _now_.” The emphasis she places on the last word tells him that she is going to be sure to bring it up again at some point. She watches as he flushes, nearly matching the red of his Daredevil suit. It's an appealing sight, but she feels a flash of guilt as she’s probably played with him enough for tonight. “And as far as dinner goes, throw in some whiskey and I'm sold.”

He gives her a playful smile. “Okay, dinner _and_ whiskey. But I'm going to hold you to the dinner part. Man, or woman, cannot live on whiskey alone.”

She covers the urge to chuckle at him with an exasperated sigh. “Ugh, if it will get you to lay off, fine.”

He simply smirks at her. “Glad to hear it. Have you got something specific in mind?”

She fidgets with the zipper on her jacket and bounces her leg as she looks anywhere but at him, because she actually, sort of, does. The amount of intention she uses to create an apathetic tone is nothing short of contradictory; in the back of her head, she spares a thought to appreciate how funny it is before continuing on. “Well … there’s a sub-shop on my block that’s pretty decent.”

“Really?” She eyes him as he says it, but to his credit, his tone is nice and even, not goading her at all.

“Yeah. And, I _guess_ you could come over when we’re done since we’d be, like... right there.”

He flattens his mouth and and furrows his brow at her. “Are you sure? Because I would love that, but I don't want to push you into something too quickly.”

She lets go of his hands and stands, hands on her hips. “I offered, okay. Do you want to come or not?”

“I do. But I think it would probably be good if we had a conversation about you setting the pace you're comfortable with, because I don't want you to feel like you're doing anything my account.”

“Fine. But I really will punch you in the mouth if you try to start that conversation right now. I need booze.” He tilts his head in her direction with a pointed look on his face. She huffs and adds begrudgingly, “And food,” as crosses to the door of his office. Once there, she taps her foot, making a show of waiting on him. He chuckles and circles back behind his desk to retrieve his glasses, his coat, and his bag of gear.

“Well, what’s one more conversation to put off for the near future?” She doesn’t expect the smile that she sees on his face as he says it, but it tells her that he isn’t worried about the future or the fact that they might have one together. A spark of hope flares to life in her chest at the thought.

But she doesn’t want to jinx it, so she tries to communicate her doubts about the possibility to him instead. “You seem pretty confident that we will eventually get to have all of these conversations.”

He follows her to the main door as he answers her. “I am. Or I'm hopeful about it, at least.” He seems so relaxed, so happy, and the sight of him this way is grounding- like an anchor that she didn’t know she needed. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard him sound so calm and content. But then he cocks his head and smirks at her. “You know, you might consider trying that some time.”

Externally, Jessica scoffs and rolls her eyes, opening the door and walking down the hallway toward the street entrance while responding with a flat, unimpressed voice. “Yeah, I'll get right on that.” She leans her back against the door as she says it, then pushes it open, and they descend into the quiet, cold night. They set a leisurely pace as they head toward her neighborhood, trading jabs and settling into a comfortable rhythm as they walk- one she has become accustomed to over the last month.

And all the while, she’s fighting a smile, because he has no idea that she’s already taken his advice. He doesn’t have a clue about how much hope he's already inspired in her. And it’s quite a considerable amount. She doesn't have the words to tell him, at least not right now. Maybe she never will. She thinks, though, that she can show him. And that might just be the best way to go about it anyway. Regardless, she is cautiously optimistic that they’ll have plenty of time for her to figure it out.


	7. Epilogue: A.K.A. What Doesn't Kill You...

The last of the winter chill is slowly giving way to the tentative warmth of spring as they stand in the graveyard. Jessica appreciates the change in the weather, though her wardrobe has yet to change. She’s still wearing her leather jacket and her scarf, but it’s nice to not feel chilled down to the bone when the wind blows. It makes being here a little easier. Or at least a little less uncomfortable.

She wasn’t sure about coming here with Matt, had even encouraged him to go without her, but he had absolutely insisted that she accompany him. She’s (almost) ashamed to admit that she really can’t deny him anything. Not anymore. She may pretend to or try to, but by now they both know that she’s actually the world’s biggest pushover. No matter the request, it’s only a matter of time before she gives in, even if the transition is relatively gradual. Sometimes so much so, that she doesn’t even realize that it’s happening. Not until he’s grinning smugly at her and thanking her for finally agreeing to do what he suggested. It’s really no wonder the man is such a successful lawyer. Thank god he never decides to take advantage of his ability by pushing her too hard. It’s almost uncanny, because he seems to have a keen sense of her boundaries while also having a good understanding of what she actually needs, and he’s always working on getting her to eventually agree to things that are good for her without overwhelming her in the process. He’s really something else.

She smirks at herself and finds that she can’t resist the urge to look at him out of the corner of her eye. But as she looks, she sees the quiver of his lip, the pained look on his face, and she’s suddenly very glad that she came. With a concerned frown drawing her eyebrows together, she raises her hand and places it on his shoulder, holding him with a steady pressure. He takes a deep breath at the contact, then turns his head to her and gives her a sad smile of thanks. She gently squeezes his shoulder in response and pretends not to notice the tear that she sees escaping beneath the cover of his glasses.

Initially, she thought staying behind would be a nice gesture, one that would allow him some privacy to mourn the way he needed to without fear of her reaction. But looking at him now, she sees that it would have been so much worse for him if she hadn’t agreed to come. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she also realizes that when she had offered to stay, she was actually trying to protect herself and her own comfort by avoiding having to watch him grieve the loss of a person who used to be so important to him. Just another example of something she initially thought she was doing to protect him, but that she later realizes was motivated by nothing more than her own fear. And damn if that revelation never gets any easier, no matter how many times she has a variation of it.

The the wind shifts, and as it does, she picks up the faintest sound of his voice. It’s barely even a whisper, though she thinks she can pick out a lilting cadence. A prayer. She’s never been a fan of religion, has even been actively hateful of it in the past, but she knows that it's important to Matt, so she’s been making a conscious effort to be more accepting of it. Or if not that, she’s trying to at least be more neutral, though she still declines to take it up herself. But she has to admit that there’s something about graveyards that makes the world seem so small in the midst of such a large universe, and she finds herself wondering…

She’s pretty sure that there isn’t a god, but if there is, she’d like to try to offer _something_ to whoever it might be. Maybe some thanks for their hard-fought victory. Or some thanks for finding Matt, as well as a blessing for him, because if anyone deserves a bit of a break these days, it's him. And lastly, a blessing for the fallen … for she who heroically chose to make the ultimate sacrifice to save everyone else (for the second time, apparently).

When she’s finished, Jessica raises her head and looks at him out of the corner of her eye, catching him as he wipes a tear away and inhales deeply. It’s not out fear or selfishness that she asks this time, but because it feels like the right thing to offer in the moment. “Do you want a minute?” She looks off to the side, casually surveying the area to see where she might go if he agrees.

But he shakes his head, wiping his eyes once more. She’s surprised to hear such clarity in his voice despite the emotion he is feeling. “No. It’s just … well it’s almost funny. Six months ago, I was standing in this very spot, doing this very thing, after watching Elektra step in front of a blade aimed at my chest to foil the Hand’s plan and prevent them from using her for their own purposes. And here I am, doing it all again, several months later because it didn’t work the first time. But this time… this time she really did it. She destroyed the resurrection vessel to prevent anyone else from being brought back, and then she intentionally sacrificed herself in that explosion. To save the city and help us win, but I think also because she knew that she wouldn’t ever be free of their influence, and she didn’t trust herself to stay who she really was.” He sniffs against fresh tears that threaten to fall from his eyes. “But all along, throughout the entire time I knew her, she always thought I was the strong one. If she only knew she had that backwards. I just… I hope she knew how proud of her I was.” HIs tone is rough with emotion by the end.

Jessica’s face draws into a frown as she stares at the tombstone in front of them. She has absolutely no idea what to say to him. She stands silent for several beats, and all she can think of is what kind of a person Elektra must have been to have such an impact on Matt. It makes her strangely nostalgic for a past that was never hers, but that she thinks she would have enjoyed if it had been. “I wish I could have known her. Before.”

A small, but genuine, smile draws up the corner of his mouth. His voice more steady, more sure as he speaks this time. “Yeah, I think you would have gotten along.”

She squeezes his shoulder again, and drops her head, staring at the ground beneath her feet. “I’m sorry. That we couldn’t find a way to save her.”

“Yeah. Me too.” He sets his jaw, lips flattening into a thin line, and she feels him tense under her hand. She doesn’t much to give him in this moment that might help him, but with a sigh, she remembers one thing that might actually be relevant. Because she does happen to know a few things about living under the influence of mind control, and it’s utterly hellish. Maybe she can offer him some comfort by explaining the hell that Elektra escaped in her sacrifice.

She bites her lip and finds she has to focus on her breathing at even the idea of sharing this with him; it’s never pleasant to remember what it was like living under Kilgrave’s control, but she’s getting to the point where she can talk about it without slipping into panic mode- as long as she remembers to breathe. With a measured exhale, she uses the surest voice she can to explain it to him.

“But you should know… what she did- pushing any that bullshit out of her head long enough to remember who she really was, for even the shortest amount of time? That’s fucking incredible. But it’s a terrible way to live. It’s clawing through every minute of every day, never relaxing because you’re always trying to get yourself back. And even when you do, it’s worrying about being swallowed up again, and being constantly terrified that you’ll never own your own mind ever again. That you’ll _never_ be free. I’m sorry she’s gone, but I am glad she’s free of that.”

Jessica does the best she can to remain calm throughout her speech, but she’s a little worked up by the end, and it makes her voice sound harsh and raw. Her body is as tense as a bow string, and if not for the light and steadying touch of Matt’s hand as he places it on her arm, she might not have even noticed. But the soft pressure of his hand helps to ground her instantaneously. She blows out a ragged exhale and intentionally releases all of the tension in her frame.

With brows drawn and a sad smile, he turns toward her. “I’m glad too. But Jess...” He trails off, expression crumbling into a frustrated glower. She thinks that she sees his nostrils flaring as he shakes his head and clenches his eyes shut. After he blows out a sigh, he tries again. “I’m just sorry that either of you ever had to experience that. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

She shrugs inside of her jacket, adjusting it and looking off to the side as she speaks in a disinterested and sarcastic tone. “Yeah, well, what doesn’t kill you…”

“...makes you miserable and gives you PTSD?” He matches the sarcasm and flatness in her voice almost perfectly, and she can’t help the smile that pulls at the corner of her mouth. But she gives a mock huff of exasperation and rolls her eyes, because in the back of her head, she’s still working on reconciling a reality in which she is happy more often than she is not.

“Something like that.” She turns to see him grinning softly at her, and that makes it a half a percent easier to imagine that happy reality. If he can keep looking at her like that, she thinks that she just might get there. Eventually.

He turns back to the grave, takes a few steps toward the headstone and kneels, reaching out and tracing the lettering with his fingers. He bows his head for a moment, and Jessica imagines he is saying one more prayer. After a brief moment of silence, he stands. And he seems a just a little taller, a little lighter when he does. Still not quite his usual self, but less burdened than he had been earlier today. He walks the few steps back to where she's standing. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“You’re welcome.” The words still feel foreign in her mouth, stilted and awkward, but she is trying to learn not to meet _every_ positive comment with dismissive sarcasm. She thinks she sees him smirk at her effort, and feels it is a just reward for her endeavor. Following an impulse that she is slowly learning to feel much more comfortable trusting, she takes his hand. The contentment on his face as she does reminds her that she is getting better at this. A little. And as long as it's forward motion, she'll take it.

With one last wistful look in the direction of the grave, he gently pulls her forward, signaling that he's ready to go. She follows wordlessly for a step or two, then subtly moves a step in front of him, pretending to lead him through the rows of gravestones.

It used to feel awkward to her, helping him perform this farce of his blindness in public, but she spares a passing thought to appreciate that it is simply one more thing that she has gotten used to in the relatively short time that they've been doing… whatever it is that they're doing. She thinks it would be right to call it a serious relationship (or at least it had better be at this point), but he never pushes her or tries to label things, never puts any kind of limits or restrictions on her. He's just always _there_ \- when she needs him, when she's lonely and upset, when she wants to just be. Whenever. And it suddenly occurs to her that maybe this is what it's really supposed to be like when you love someone. That maybe it isn't all formal declarations and flowery language, or labels and trying too hard to be a certain version of yourself. Maybe it's supposed to feel… comfortable and familiar, like a favorite sweater that is a bit worn from use, but that never ceases to feel welcoming and cozy. Like coming home.

As though the universe has just punched her in the face, she all of the sudden realizes that during all this time that she’s been waiting for him to say what they are or tell her he loves her, he has been waiting for _her._ Waiting for her to say what they are, and to give definitions and labels, and to claim him with whatever words she feels comfortable using. She knows she’s joked with him in the past about being a saint, but good god, the man certainly has the patience of one. And now that she knows all of this, she finds herself wondering about how she would like to define their relationship. She doesn't think these are decisions to make right now, though. They require a little bit more deliberation and intention. With an internal chuckle, she puts the topic on the hypothetical shelf of ‘future conversations’, which, surprisingly, isn't all that full. She’s proud to say that they do a pretty damn good job of picking things back up and resolving them. And that reminds her of something… she might have a plan to help cheer Matt up a bit and take his mind off of everything.

As they reach the cab that is waiting for them, she glances at in his direction to see if he seems up for what she's about to suggest. Though he still has a fairly flat, stoic expression, he's not full on brooding, and she takes that as a good sign. They settle in and when the driver asks where they'd like to go, Jessica responds before Matt can, giving the man his address.

He cocks an eyebrow at her as she does. “Do we have plans I don't know about?”

She leans her forearm on the door of the car, rapping her fingers along the window ledge. “Not yet. But I thought we could make some.”

He gives her a knowing look. “What did you have in mind? Because I really don’t think whiskey is a good idea tonig-”

“No, not that. Actually... I thought that it was about time we set up that match you promised me.” She tries not to sound too interested in the plan, as though she’s casually suggesting one option of many possibilities.

But the offer stops him in his tracks. He pauses and turns toward her, confusion all over his face. He really must not have been expecting her to offer that. “Seriously?”

She shrugs and slides one hand into her pocket where it stays busy, picking at the seams of the lining. Her other hand is positioned on her thigh where she picks at the threads that hang from a sizable tear. “Look, grief’s a bitch. I just thought it might help. Or can you honestly tell me that you wouldn't like the chance to go a few rounds right now?”

He still doesn’t seem sure what to make of her offer, as his tone is colored with incredulity. “Uh, yeah. I guess I would. But I wasn’t sure you were serious when you agreed to that, considering the _other_ conversation we had.” His voice turns smoother by the end hits the word with a pointed emphasis in reference to a former ‘future conversation’ that they did, in fact, resolve (with mutual benefit).

She finally turns toward him with a weighty stare. When she answers him, her voice is a mix of alluring and playful. “Well maybe you’re not the only one who likes it a little rough sometimes.”

But Matt doesn’t take the bait. He cocks his head at her and uses his best sarcastic voice as he goads her. “Are you intentionally being an asshole, or is it just old habits?”

She covers a chuckle with a sigh and licks her lips before trying one more time to make him this offer. She musters the most neutral tone she can, though a few hints of a mocking exasperation still slip through the smirk that inevitably curls her lips. “Screw you. Now do you want an opportunity to try to kick my ass or not?”

He answers without even pausing. “Honestly? Yes.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she settles further back into the seat. “That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

He gives her a mischievous smile. “You’re on. When we get to my place, let me make a call and set it up.”

“Good. And you better bring your A game, Murdock, because I definitely will.”

He chuckles and she feels more than a little proud at helping him to feel better in the midst of very shitty circumstances. His voice is more sure and carries more mirth than it has in days as he gives her an answering retort. “Don’t worry about me.”

She rolls her eyes at him and turns to watch the city pass by through the car window. Possible strategies she could use to try to beat him preoccupy her as she gazes unseeing through the glass, and he almost startles her when he speaks a few moments later. His voice is softer this time, nonchalant- almost an afterthought- and it takes her a moment to catch on to his meaning.

“But later, I would like to revisit the topic of how ‘rough’ you sometimes like things.”

She turns and sees him intentionally facing away, as though trying to focus on the city sounds beyond the window. She thinks she also catches the ghost of a smirk on his face, and belatedly notices that he has caused her to blush. The realization causes her to set her jaw and start glaring in his direction as her blush recedes. It’s something of a game they’ve been playing, but it’s getting harder for him to find ways and reasons to make her to blush, so he’s always doubly proud when he succeeds.

After a beat, her glare fades into a neutral look; she decides she’ll allow him this victory as it is likely the only one he’ll have tonight… at least in terms of their official competition. She turns again to look out the window and maintains a sarcastic and non-committal tone as she reluctantly agrees. “I’m sure you would. I suppose we can get to that. Eventually. But I think I remember hearing something about you paying for a busted window the last time you went… wherever it is we’re going. How about we revisit that story first?”

Jessica expects to see a matching smirk on his face when she turns to look at him, but her face instantly falls at the pained expression he wears instead. Her face morphs into a confused frown for the five seconds it takes her to put two and two together. As soon as she does, she sighs and rubs her eyes. “Shit. Matt, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that happened with …” She can’t even bring herself to finish the sentence, as though she’s somehow afraid to speak _her_ name and make things worse for him than they already are. And it’s compounded by the fact that she tried for an apologetic tone, but it came out sounding lame and flat to her ears, so she can’t imagine how it must have sounded to him.

Her fingers twitch as she consciously keeps her hand from reaching for her flask; instead, she slides her hands back into her pockets and returns to picking at the seams of the lining inside. Matt seems to have gathered himself together at this point as she sees a more neutral look on his face out of the corner of her eye. He turns toward her and speaks in a steady, if flat, voice.

“Jess, it’s okay. You can say her name. And it’s not like we can’t talk about things that have happened just because they involve Elektra. She’s gone … and that’s hard for me. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t handle thinking about her or that you have walk on eggshells around me.”

“Okay. But you don’t have to tell me the story. Hell, we don’t even have to go-”

“Thank you. But … I think I want to. I think it might actually help- to remember her like she was before. Honestly, I think she’d find this whole thing funny, anyway.”

“What?”

“You and me. This match. Our whole relationship, really. If she were here, I think she’d laugh and say that she told me so.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain, but … I don’t know that she ever felt like she truly deserved to be with me. Maybe with good reason, at times, but I always thought that she was putting me on a pedestal or feeding me a bullshit line because she was scared or she felt guilty for the things she’d done that I didn’t approve of. Then, right before she died... for the first time… I told her that nobody knew me like she did. But she didn’t buy that. She said that was because I hid from myself, because I didn’t ever allow anyone else close enough to try. She might have been right about that. Then, at least. And I think that’s what she meant- that I shouldn’t limit myself to being with her just because she knew the truth about me. Not when there were so many points of contention between us. I think she knew that I could find someone else who would understand me, who would be a better fit. I just had to find the right person to tell. And I think she’d agree with me when I say that person is you.”

No matter how pleased a part of her may be to hear it, Jessica has absolutely no idea what to say to any of that. She has to fight off feelings of shame that try to sabotage her brief happiness with voices that scream to her that doesn’t deserve him, has never deserved him, and will never deserve him for as long as she lives. She can do nothing but sit in silence for a beat or two and concentrate on her breath. She is pleased when it takes only about thirty seconds of her focusing on her breathing to silence those hateful voices. Once she has blocked them out of her mind, she tries once more to hear his words and allow herself to entertain the thought that they might be true. With relieved sigh, she finds that actually agrees with his assessment.

Her heart pounds, so much so that she can practically feel it bouncing off of her ribcage, and she wonders, briefly, what Matt makes of her reaction. She waits one more beat, then finally tries her voice. She’s pleased to hear it coming out relatively steady and calm. “That makes three of us.”

The neutral look on his face, which was starting to slowly transform into concern at the silence that built between them, shifts into a beatific smile. It’s one that is contagious, and she can’t help but smile back, though she fights to keep hers to a lesser wattage.

She looks out the window to check their progress toward his his apartment and is pleased to note that they are close. She takes this opportunity to transition them to less emotional waters in the hopes of dissipating some of the tension that remains in the air between. But it also might something to do with the fact that she is already preparing for their match, and she can never pass up the chance to challenge him for any conceivable reason.

“Don’t think I’ll go any easier on you just because you told me this sob story. I’m still gonna make you work for it.” She looks at him emphatically, sure that even if he can’t see the expectant look she’s giving him, he can feel the intensity of it.

He turns to receive her intent gaze with a soft smile on his face, then gives her his own version of a weighty stare. And even if they can’t truly make eye-contact, she still gets the sensation that he’s looking right at her, almost like he’s looking through her to her core. When he speaks, it’s like he’s speaking directly to her soul.

“You don’t scare me, Jones. Do your worst. I can take it.” The bravado that he was using earlier in their joking is long gone. Instead, his voice sounds intent and earnest. She has to remind herself to breathe as she hears him use that tone to say those words. Because she knows that suddenly, he’s talking about so much more than this sparring match. And it astounds her that she finds that she believes him, fiercely and utterly. Because as she looks at his open, honest face, she believes that he isn’t scared of her and that he can take whatever she gives- the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. He’s already proven this, several times over, but any reassurance he can offer is more than welcome because the doubtful voices in the back of her head are always present, even as she’s working on quieting them.

They get especially loud whenever the topic of Elektra comes up, though Jessica logically knows that it’s ridiculous to worry about any kind of competition between them. But, good ol’, intuitive Matt, who has gotten very good at knowing what she’s feeling before she does, knows just when and how to reassure her, even in the midst of day when he could likely stand some reassurance of his own. And yet that’s one of the reasons that she loves him (and, let’s be honest- she _does_ ). Because he can somehow balance her and all of her fucked up baggage while dealing with all of his own shit. It’s not to say that she doesn’t help him with his own issues when they come up, or at least she tries to, but it doesn’t come as easily to her as to him, so their relationship is still a little asymmetrical sometimes. But she’s working on it, and one day she hopes that she’ll be the one to reach out first, or to know, without asking, what he needs. Because she’s pretty sure, that’s part of what love is, too. The familiarity. The ability to care for another person more than yourself. The grace that it takes to help someone through their pain even when you haven’t finished addressing your own. She sees now that it doesn’t have to be the mushy stuff, and she can finally say that gets it, even if she’s still not sure how to say the actual words out loud. But again, he doesn’t seem to mind; he has faith in her- that she’ll get there, however long it takes.

She blinks at him a few times, trying to calm her breathing so she can say something, anything, to let him know that she _knows_. She heard him and all that he said without saying, she’s grateful for it, and she’ll do whatever she can to show him the same support. But such words might as well be in another language for impossible they feel on her tongue. But there’s a certain kind of relief that comes from understanding that he knows her well enough to know what she’s capable of saying. One day she thinks she’d like to surprise him with that, but for now, he wouldn’t expect anything other than sarcasm layered over the tiniest hint of truth. So that’s exactly what she gives him.

“Let’s just hope you’re right, ‘cause I’m not sure that you’ve seen my worst.”

He cocks his head and shrugs. “Maybe that’s because your worst is already behind you.”

It’s still amazing to her how he can baffle her so easily with his words, but even more so with his ability to make her question things that she has taken as fact for so long that she’s lost the distinction between what she can’t change and what she can. Her heart swells at the realization that he is turning her entire world upside down… and she’s thankful for it- more than he could ever possibly realize. Something about that thought tunnels a path through her brain to the center of her thoughts, and she finds that in this one instance, she doesn’t have to search for what to say and she doesn’t have to disguise her true meaning with sarcasm or false pretense. She looks him straight in the face and tells him the truth with a neutral, almost happy voice that sounds foreign to her own ears. “As long as you’re around, that may actually be true.”

A brilliant, knowing smile spreads across his face and her heart skips at the sight. Because she thinks he gets it. She thinks he knows the things that she can’t say out loud, and she thinks that he can accept them this way- at least for now. The three words he says in response confirm that for her as much as they remind her of what he’s not saying directly either.

“I’ll take that.”

Or, more precisely: _I know that this is all that you can give me right now, and it’s enough, and you’re enough, and I will be here waiting for you and however much you can give me in the future._

Or, more simply: _I love you_.

His version is also three words long, and by some miracle, she knows the meaning that he’s trying to convey. But the words he has chosen seem infinitely less intimidating, and so more accessible. So maybe that’s where she should start. Maybe they can adopt this as their own little shorthand until she can finally learn to say the official words. He does deserve to hear them, eventually. And with everything else that’s happened between them, she’s becoming increasingly more confident that it’s just a matter of time until he does. She will learn it, just as she is learning trust and vulnerability and honesty and everything else that he’s teaching her. And until then, she can use these three words as a way to tell him all that she needs to tell him. And you know what?

_She’ll take that._

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, in particular a line that describes the way that Benedick and Beatrice interact. I felt like it was perfect because Matt and Jessica remind me so much of Benedick and Beatrice. I may be in the minority, but there is something about the Matt/Jessica dynamic that I find very compelling. I really think they balance each other out and make a certain kind of sense together. This was my first time with this pairing, so hopefully I've done them justice. I tried to stay in the realm of canon while making some guesses as to what might be happening in the world of The Defenders. As info came out from SDCC, some of this doesn't fit, particularly related to Elektra, but hopefully it works in this context. Anyway, I'm always happy to hear your thoughts! Find me on tumblr @livingvakariouslythroughyou if you're interested. And a huge thanks for reading!


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